The Chief Constable showed no desire to be drawn. He glanced rather quizzically at his subordinate for a moment before speaking.
“I’ll give you the points which strike me in that connection, Inspector; and then you’ll be just as well placed as I am myself in the matter of Mr. Justice. First of all, if you compare the time of publication of the morning newspapers with the time, at which Mr. Justice’s telegram was collected from the pillar-box, I think it’s fairly evident that he didn’t depend on the journalists for his first information about the affair. Even the Ivy Lodge news wasn’t printed until after he had despatched his message.”
“That’s true, sir,” Flamborough admitted.
His manner showed that he expected a good deal more than this tittle of information.
“Therefore he must have had some direct information about the bungalow business. Either he was on the spot when the affair occurred, or else he was told about it almost immediately by someone who was on the spot.”
“Admitted,” the inspector confirmed.
“Then he obviously—or is it ‘she obviously,’ Inspector?—saw the importance of hyoscine as a clue as soon as any word about it got into the newspapers. Immediately, in comes the code advertisement, giving us—rather unnecessarily I think—the tip to inquire at the Croft-Thornton Institute.”
Flamborough’s face showed that he felt Sir Clinton was merely recapitulating very obvious pieces of evidence.
“Then there was the writing on the advertisements which he sent to the papers—Mrs. Silverdale’s writing rather neatly forged, if you remember.”
“Yes,” said the Inspector, showing by his tone that at this point he was rather at sea.
“Then there was the fact that he managed to choose his time most conveniently for his raid on Miss Deepcar’s house.”
“You mean he made his visit when only the maid was at home, sir?”
“Precisely. I rather admire his forethought all through the business. But there’s more in it than that, if you think it over, Inspector?”
“Well, sir, if your reading’s correct, he wanted some of Silverdale’s letters to serve as a basis for these photographs.”
“Something even more obvious than that, Inspector. Now, with all that evidence in front of you, can’t you build up some sort of picture of Mr. Justice? You ought to be able to come fairly near it, I think.”
“Somebody fairly in the swim with the Silverdale crowd, at any rate. I can see that. And someone who knew the Croft-Thornton by hearsay, at any rate. Is that what you mean, sir?”
Sir Clinton betrayed nothing in his expression, though the Inspector scrutinised his face carefully; but he added something which Flamborough had not expected.
“Final points. The date on the fragment of an envelope that I found in the drawer in Mrs. Silverdale’s room was 1925. The date inside that signet-ring on her finger was 5–11–25. And there was the initial ‘B’ engraved alongside the date.”
Inspector Flamborough quite obviously failed to see the relevancy of these details. His face showed it in the most apparent way.
“I don’t see what you’re getting at there, sir,” he said rather shamefacedly. “These things never struck me; and even now I don’t see what they’ve got to do with Mr. Justice.”
If he expected to gain anything by this frank confession, he was disappointed. Sir Clinton had evidently no desire to save his subordinate the trouble of thinking, and his next remark left Flamborough even deeper in bewilderment.
“Ever read anything by Dean Swift, Inspector?”
“I read Gulliver’s Travels when I was a kid, sir,” Flamborough admitted, with the air of deprecating any investigation into his literary tastes.
“You might read his Journal to Stella some time. But I guess you’d find it dull. It’s a reprint of his letters to Esther Johnson. He called her ‘Stella,’ and it’s full of queer abbreviations and phrases like ‘Night, dear MD. Love Pdfr.’ It teems with that sort of stuff. Curious to see the human side of a man like Swift, isn’t it?”
“In love with her, you mean, sir?”
“Well, it sounds like it,” Sir Clinton replied cautiously. “However, we needn’t worry over Swift. Let’s see if we can’t do something with this case, for a change.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Half-past five. We may be able to get hold of her.”
He picked up the telephone from his desk and asked for a number while Flamborough waited with interest to hear the result.
“Is that the Croft-Thornton Institute?” Sir Clinton demanded at length. “Sir Clinton Driffield speaking. Can you ask Miss Hailsham to come to the telephone?”
There was a pause before he spoke once more.
“Miss Hailsham? I’m sorry to trouble you, but can you tell me if there’s a microphotographic camera in the Institute? I’d like to know.”
Flamborough, all ears, waited for the next bit of the one-sided conversation which was reaching him.
“You have two of them? Then I suppose I might be able to get permission to use one of them, perhaps, if we need it. . . . Thanks, indeed. By the way, I suppose you’re just leaving the Institute now. . . . I thought so. Very lucky I didn’t miss you by a minute or two. I mustn’t detain you. Thanks again. Good-bye.”
He put down the telephone and turned to Flamborough.
“You might ask Miss Morcott to come here, Inspector.”
Flamborough, completely puzzled by this move, opened the door of the adjoining room and summoned Sir Clinton’s typist.
“I want you to telephone for me, Miss Morcott,” the Chief Constable explained. “Ring up Dr. Trevor Markfield at his house. When you get through, say to his housekeeper: ‘Miss Hailsham speaking. Please tell Dr. Markfield that I wish to see him to-night and that I shall come round to his house at nine o’clock.’ Don’t say any more than that, and get disconnected before there’s any chance of explanations.”
Miss Morcott carried out Sir Clinton’s orders carefully and then went back to her typing. As soon as the door closed behind her, the Inspector’s suppressed curiosity got the better of him.
“I don’t quite understand all that, sir. I suppose you asked about the photomicrographic affair just to see if these prints could have been made at the Croft-Thornton?”
“I hadn’t much doubt on that point. Photomicrographic apparatus isn’t common among amateur photographers, but it’s common enough in scientific institutes. No, I was really killing two birds with one stone: finding out about the micro-camera and making sure that Miss Hailsham was leaving the place for the night and wouldn’t have a chance to speak to Markfield before she went.”
“And what about her calling on Markfield to-night, sir?”
“She’ll have to do it by proxy, I’m afraid. We’ll represent her, however inefficiently, Inspector. The point is that I wanted to be sure that Markfield would be at home when we called; and I wished to avoid making an appointment in my own name lest it should put him too much on his guard. The time’s come when we’ll have to persuade Dr. Markfield to be a bit franker than he’s been, hitherto. I think I see my way to getting out of him most of what he knows; and if I can succeed in that, then we ought to have all the evidence we need.”
He paused, as though not very sure about something.
“He’s been bluffing us all along the line up to the present, Inspector. It’s a game two can play at; and you’ll be good enough to turn a deaf ear occasionally if I’m tempted out of the straight path. And whatever happens, don’t look over-surprised at anything I may say. If you can contrive to look thoroughly stupid, it won’t do any harm.”
Chapter Seventeen
MR. JUSTICE
Just before entering the road in which Markfield lived, Sir Clinton drew up his car; and as he did so, a constable in plain clothes stepped forward.
“Dr. Markfield’s in his house, sir,” he announced. “He came home just before dinner-time.”
Sir Clinton nodded, let in his
clutch, and drove round the corner to Markfield’s gate. As he stopped his engine, he glanced at the house-front.
“Note that his garage is built into the house, Inspector,” he pointed out. “That seems of interest, if there’s a door from the house direct into the garage, I think.”
They walked up the short approach and rang the bell. In a few moments the door was opened by Markfield’s housekeeper. Rather to her surprise, Sir Clinton inquired about the health of her relation whom she had been nursing.
“Oh, she’s all right again, sir, thank you. I got back yesterday.”
She paused a moment as though in doubt, then added:
“I’m not sure if Dr. Markfield is free this evening, sir. He’s expecting a visitor.”
“We shan’t detain him if his visitor arrives,” Sir Clinton assured her, his manner leaving no doubt in her mind as to the advisability of his own admission.
The housekeeper ushered them into Markfield’s sitting-room, where they found him by the fire, deep in a book. At the sound of Sir Clinton’s name he looked up with a glance which betrayed his annoyance at being disturbed.
“I’m rather at a loss to understand this visit,” he said stiffly, as they came into the room.
Sir Clinton refused to notice the obviously grudging tone of his reception.
“We merely wish to have a few minutes’ talk, Dr. Markfield,” he explained pleasantly. “Some information has come into my hands which needs confirmation, and I think you’ll be able to help us.”
Markfield glanced at the clock.
“I’m in the middle of an experiment,” he said gruffly. “I’ve got to run it through, now that it’s started. If you’re going to be long. I’d better bring the things in here and then I can oversee it while I’m talking to you.”
Without waiting for permission, he left the room and came back in a couple of minutes with a tray on which stood some apparatus. Flamborough noticed a conical flask containing some limpid liquid, and a stoppered bottle. Markfield clamped a dropping funnel, also containing a clear liquid, so that its spout entered the conical flask; and by turning the tap of the funnel slightly, he allowed a little of the contents to flow down into the flask.
“I hope the smell doesn’t trouble you,” he said, in a tone of sour apology. “It’s the triethylamine I’m mixing with the tetranitromethane in the flask. Rather a fishy stink it has.”
He arranged the apparatus on the table so that he could reach the tap conveniently without rising from his chair; then, after admitting a little more of the liquid from the funnel into the flask, he seated himself once more and gave Sir Clinton his attention.
“What is it you want to know?” he demanded abruptly.
Sir Clinton refused to be hurried. Putting his hand into his breast-pocket, he drew out some sheets of typewriting which he placed on the table before him, as though for future reference. Then he turned to his host.
“Some time ago, a man Peter Whalley came to us and made a statement, Dr. Markfield.”
Markfield’s face betrayed some surprise.
“Whalley?” he asked. “Do you mean the man who was murdered on the Lizardbridge Road?”
“He was murdered, certainly,” Sir Clinton confirmed. “But as I said, he made a statement to us. I’m not very clear about some points, and I think you might be able to fill in one or two of the gaps.”
Markfield’s face showed a quick flash of suspicion.
“I’m not very sure what you mean,” he said, doubtfully, “If you’re trying to trap me into saying things that might go against Silverdale, I may as well tell you I’ve no desire to give evidence against him. I’m sure he’s innocent; and I don’t wish to say anything to give you a handle against him. That’s frank enough, isn’t it?”
“If it relieves your mind, I may as well say I agree with you on that point, Dr. Markfield. So there’s no reason why you shouldn’t give us your help.”
Markfield seemed slightly taken aback by this, but he did his best to hide his feelings.
“Go on, then,” he said. “What is it you want?”
Sir Clinton half-opened the paper on the table, then took away his hand as though he needed no notes at the moment.
“It appears that on the night of the affair at the bungalow, when Mrs. Silverdale met her death, Peter Whalley was walking along the Lizardbridge Road, coming towards town,” Sir Clinton began. “It was a foggy night, you remember. He’d just passed the bungalow gate when he noticed, ahead of him, the headlights of a car standing by the roadside; and he appears to have heard voices.”
The Inspector listened to this with all his ears. Where had Sir Clinton fished up this fresh stock of information, evidently of crucial importance? Then a recollection of the Chief Constable’s warning flashed through his mind and he schooled his features into a mask of impassivity. A glance at Markfield showed that the chemist, though outwardly uninterested, was missing no detail of the story.
“It seems,” Sir Clinton went on, “that the late Mr. Whalley came up to the car and found a man and a girl in the front seat. The girl seemed to be in an abnormal state; and Mr. Whalley, from his limited experience, inferred that she was intoxicated. The man, Whalley thought, had stopped the car to straighten her in the seat and make her look less conspicuous; but as soon as Whalley appeared out of the night, the man started the car again and drove slowly past him towards the bungalow.”
Sir Clinton mechanically smoothed out his papers, glanced at them, and then continued:
“The police can’t always choose their instruments, Dr. Markfield. We have to take witnesses where we can get them. Frankly, then, the late Mr. Whalley was not an admirable character—far from it. He’d come upon a man and a girl alone in a car, and the girl was apparently not in a fit state to look after herself. An affair of this sort would bring two ideas into Mr. Whalley’s mind. Clothing them in vulgar language, they’d be: ‘Here’s a bit o’ fun, my word!’ and ‘What is there in it for me?’ He had a foible for trading on the weaknesses of his fellow-creatures, you understand?”
Markfield nodded grimly, but made no audible comment.
“The late Mr. Whalley, then, stared after the car; and, to his joy, no doubt, he saw it turn in at the gate of the bungalow. He guessed the place was empty, since there hadn’t been a light showing in it when he passed it a minute or two before. Not much need to analyse Mr. Whalley’s ideas in detail, is there? He made up his mind that a situation of this sort promised him some fun after his own heart, quite apart from any little financial pickings he might make out of it later on, if he were lucky. So he made his best pace after the car.”
Sir Clinton turned over a page of the notes before him and, glancing at the document, knitted his brows slightly.
“The late Mr. Whalley wasn’t a perfect witness of course, and I’m inclined to think that at this point I can supply a missing detail in the story. A second car came on the scene round about this period—a car driving in towards town—and it must have met the car with the man and the girl in it just about this time. But that’s not in Mr. Whalley’s statement. It’s only a surmise of my own, and not really essential.”
Inspector Flamborough had been growing more and more puzzled as this narrative unfolded. He could not imagine how the Chief Constable had accumulated all this information. Suddenly the explanation crossed his mind.
“Lord! He’s bluffing! He’s trying to persuade Markfield that we know all about it already. These are just inferences of his; and he’s put the double bluff on Markfield by pretending that Whalley’s statement wasn’t quite full and that he’s filling the gap with a guess of his own. What a nerve!” he commented to himself.
“By the time the late Mr. Whalley reached the bungalow gate,” Sir Clinton pursued, “the man had got the girl out of the car and both of them had gone into the house. Mr. Whalley, it seems, went gingerly up the approach, and, as he did so, alight went on in one of the front rooms of the bungalow. The curtains were drawn. The late Mr. Whalley,
with an eye to future profit, took the precaution of noting the number of the motor, which was standing at the front door.”
Flamborough glanced at Markfield to see what effect Sir Clinton was producing. To his surprise, the chemist seemed in no way perturbed. With a gesture as though asking permission, he leaned over and ran a little of the liquid from the funnel into the flask, shook the mixture gently for a moment or two, and then turned back to Sir Clinton. The Inspector, watching keenly, could see no tremor in his hand as he carried out the operations.
“The late Mr. Whalley,” Sir Clinton continued, when Markfield had finished his work. “The late Mr. Whalley did not care about hanging round the front of the bungalow. If he stood in front of the lighted window, anyone passing on the road would be able to see him outlined against the glare; and that might have led to difficulties. So he passed round to the second window of the same room, which looked out on the side of the bungalow and was therefore not so conspicuous from the road. Just as he turned the corner of the building, he heard a second car stop at the gate.”
Sir Clinton paused here, as though undecided about the next part of his narrative. He glanced at Markfield, apparently to see whether he was paying attention; then he proceeded.
“The late Mr. Whalley tip-toed along to this side-window of the lighted room, and, much to his delight, I’ve no doubt, he found that the curtains had been carelessly drawn, so that a chink was left between them through which he could peep into the room. He stepped on to the flower-bed, bent down, and peered through the aperture. I hope I make myself clear, Dr. Markfield?”
“Quite,” said Markfield curtly.
Sir Clinton nodded in acknowledgment, glanced once more at his papers as though to refresh his memory, and continued:
“What he saw was this. The girl was lying in an armchair near the fireplace. The late Mr. Whalley, again misled by his limited experience, thought she’d fallen asleep—the effects of alcohol, he supposed, I believe. The young man who was with her—we may save the trouble by calling him Hassendean, I think—seemed rather agitated, but not quite in the way that the late Mr. Whalley had anticipated. Hassendean spoke to the girl and got no reply, evidently. He shook her gently, and so on; but he got no response. I think we may cut out the details. The net result was that to Mr. Whalley’s inexperienced eye, the girl looked very far gone. Hassendean seemed to be thunderstruck by the situation, which puzzled the late Mr. Whalley considerably at the time.”
The Case With Nine Solutions (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 21
