“Sounds all right,” Bobby repeated. “I don’t think I need bother you any longer. You know, of course, we shall check up on your alibi, just as a matter of form.”
Dwight nodded, though with a touch of uneasiness. But that was to be expected. Then Dwight said:
“There’s just one little point I would like you to notice. It wasn’t me at Rose Briar Cottage, but if you choose to believe it was, then it follows you believe I left the revolver behind, as Mrs Jordan is supposed to have fired it after the chap. So you can’t very well believe, too, that I used it to shoot Anderson on Tuesday, when, by your own theory, I hadn’t got it any longer. I suppose though that isn’t the sort of thing you bother about thinking up, only points against a chap, not for him?”
“If we didn’t think up points like that, for as well as against,” Bobby answered, “we should soon be in pretty deep water. In this case it doesn’t apply, because Mrs Jordan’s evidence is that she tried to hide the revolver, but that someone found the hiding-place and took the revolver away. She says she doesn’t know who or when.”
Dwight stared at Bobby, looking both surprised and suspicious.
“Is this a trap?” he demanded.
Bobby sighed.
“If you are going to be a lawyer,” he said, “you ought to know by now that traps are God’s own gift to the defence. Defending counsel would talk of nothing else till he had the jury believe there was nothing else—why, laying a trap simply shouts that the evidence isn’t good enough. Besides, traps are useless if the murderer has any sense. He spots them at once. And if the murderer is a fool, then they aren’t required. Well, I think that’s all. I’m sorry if you think I’ve bothered you unnecessarily, but it’s important to be sure how many people knew of Rose Briar Cottage. They seem to have managed to keep it very fairly quiet. Mr Castles seems to have been ignorant. I imagine Mr Blythe knew?”
“I haven’t an idea,” answered Dwight cautiously, possibly seeing the little hidden snare, since, if he had known that Blythe knew he must have known himself. “If he had done he would have hated it. I mean, he always does, people being in love with each other. It’s a sort of complex with him.”
“Must be a complex he has to control pretty often.”
“Oh, he knows it happens. It’s not that, it’s just that he can’t stand any show of it. If you want the sack from our office, just let him see there’s a spot of flirting going on. If he had suspected anything of the sort between Anderson and one of the staff, he would have gone right in off the deep end.” He paused and added with a half smile: “There’s a motive for you, as you’re so jolly keen on finding one. Perhaps it was Blythe that cop of yours spotted climbing out of Rose Briar Cottage.”
With a triumphant nod, as if he felt he had given Bobby something to think about, though something he himself did not take very seriously, Dwight retired; and Bobby put in some rapid and efficient work to test the alibi he had been given. He was not much surprised to find that the result was unsatisfactory in the extreme. At the Welsdon private hotel, Mrs Hillman, the proprietress and manager, agreed that it was quite likely she had seen and spoken to Mr Dwight on Tuesday evening, but it might have been Wednesday, it might have been Monday. There had been no reason to remember the incident exactly. When she saw any of her guests, she naturally said good night, and often chatted for a minute or two, if they seemed in the mood for it. She herself, she explained, had always to be in the mood for it. This information was imparted with the patient sigh of a martyr, but did not seem helpful as regarded Dwight’s alibi. The girl at the reception desk was equally vague. She had certainly been on duty on Tuesday evening till eleven, when the hotel was supposed to close. But she would neither notice nor remember the return of any guest. A stranger, yes; but not a resident. Why should she? She would simply recognize him or her as a guest and forget it. Then there was Mr Watkins who did indeed remember very clearly the incident of the collision and how his book had been knocked out of his hand. He did not hide his unfavourable opinion of the younger generation in general and of Dwight in particular, but couldn’t possibly say whether the incident had happened on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. That sort of boorish behaviour was far too common for any one fresh demonstration of it to be remembered specially. But he had no doubt that it had occurred on whatever day the police thought likely. Sergeant Wright, who made the report, had equally no doubt that Mr Watkins was the sort of witness ready to commit stubborn, convincing, and unconscious perjury of the kind most dangerous to justice.
At the office of Messrs Morgan it was even worse. Mr Swift agreed he had played a match with Dwight and won it by a brilliant display of sheer skill—‘shan’t forget that game in a hurry. I put the balls just where I wanted—right on the top of my form’—but with some hesitation he admitted that the game, owing to the brilliance of his last break—‘not a fluke in it, either’—had been over fairly early. He hadn’t noticed when exactly, but ‘definitely’ early. He had then played another hundred up with another chap, and Dwight had hung about watching for a time, but Mr Swift had no idea how long or when Dwight had left. His attention had been on his game. He also admitted, though still with hesitation, when the question was put to him, that Dwight had rung up to ask him if he didn’t remember that he, Dwight, had remained in the billiard hall till nearly closing time. But Mr Swift wasn’t going to say he was sure when he wasn’t, even if it did seem like letting down a pal.
The attendant at the billiard-hall door began, however, by being very positive. He was certain Mr Dwight, whom he knew well, had been almost the last to leave before closing time. But he could give no reason why he was so sure of this. It just happened that he remembered. Finally, sharp questioning by Sergeant Wright, and a vague hint about tracing ’phone calls, resulted in a scared admission that Dwight had rung him up, too, and had promised him a pound note if he could say he was sure Dwight had remained in the hall till late.
“Young fool’s given himself away pretty thoroughly,” opined Wright, making his report.
“I half expected he might do something of the sort,” Bobby said. “His alibi’s a wash-out.”
“Looks to me as if it was him all right,” declared Wright. “Faking alibis and all. It doesn’t look too good.”
“It doesn’t follow because he tried to get faked confirmation that the alibi itself is faked,” Bobby said thoughtfully. “It may have been just nervousness. He was pretty badly scared. All we are entitled to say is that his alibi isn’t worth anything.”
Wright looked unconvinced, but said ‘Yes, sir,’ in the way in which Bobby, when a sergeant, had been accustomed himself to say ‘Yes, sir,’ when he thoroughly disagreed with a superior. Then Wright retired and Bobby rang up Castles and asked if it would be possible for Mr Blythe to come round to see him. Mr Blythe promised to do so shortly, and in preparation for the interview Bobby unlocked a cupboard and got out the motoring gauntlet rescued from the canal. He meant it to be lying on his desk when Mr Blythe arrived.
CHAPTER XIV
ALIBI OF A GLOVE
IT HAS TO be confessed that Bobby, who had so recently expounded to young Dwight the futility of all traps, did experience a slight twinge of conscience as, awaiting the arrival of Mr Blythe, he placed the motoring gauntlet in its conspicuous position on his table. He comforted himself with the reflection that it wasn’t really a trap, only a test, and at the moment the difference in the meaning of these two words seemed to him enormous. Then, too, all he meant to do was to notice if Blythe looked startled or uneasy on catching sight of the recovered glove. The test, however, that was so emphatically not a trap, was one that Blythe passed successfully, for when he entered the room and noticed the glove he merely looked mildly pleased.
“You’ve got it back for me then?” he said. “Quick work. Where was it?”
“I suppose it is the one you lost?” Bobby asked. “You can identify it positively?”
“Why, yes,” Blythe answered. “Is there any doubt?” He p
icked it up and looked at it more closely. “Oh, it’s mine all right,” he said. “Where was it?” he asked again.
“In the canal,” Bobby told him.
“In the canal?” repeated Blythe, looking even more surprised. “What on earth…how did it get there?”
“Our information,” Bobby said, “is that it was thrown into the canal by a person who states it was found in an unoccupied cottage garden on the road near Ends Bridge.”
“Near Ends Bridge,” Blythe repeated. “I don’t follow that. Ends Bridge? That’s where you think Anderson may have been murdered. What was it doing there?”
“I am sure you will understand,” Bobby said, “that that is what we very much want to know.”
“So do I,” Blythe told him. “I don’t understand it at all. Are you sure? It seems so extraordinary. I thought you said the canal first?”
“Apparently it was thrown into the canal by the finder in order to get rid of it.”
Blythe looked almost comically bewildered. Bobby, watching him closely, thought that if it was acting, it was very good acting. But there are some most excellent actors who yet have never trodden the boards. He thought he could detect, too, an undercurrent of discomfort and unease. Not that that was unnatural in the circumstances. He waited in silence for Blythe to speak. It was a minute or two before Blythe said:
“I lose my glove. It is taken from my car. It turns up in the canal, having been thrown in after being found close to where my partner was murdered.”
Bobby still said nothing. There was again a pause till Blythe spoke, slowly and gravely.
“Does this mean,” he asked, “that I—I’ll put it plainly—that I am under suspicion of having murdered poor Anderson?”
“I think,” Bobby said, “that at present it would be quite impossible to say anything more than that this business of your glove ought to be explained. We feel it is necessary to know how it got where our informant says it was found.”
“Who is he? Your informant, I mean. Or don’t you want to say?”
“At present I think we would rather not,” Bobby answered. “Very likely all this will turn out to be entirely unimportant. Then we can forget it. And then it would be much better if no names had been mentioned. Make forgetting easier all round. Would you mind saying where you were that Tuesday evening?”
“The murder night? An alibi?” Blythe asked. “Oh, I’m not complaining. You’re simply doing your duty, I can quite see that. Only you must admit, it’s a bit startling for a respectable, middle-aged solicitor to find himself under suspicion of having murdered his own partner.”
“Oh, we haven’t got as far as suspicion—or anywhere near for that matter,” Bobby protested.
“But you want an alibi all the same?” Blythe said, with a somewhat grim smile. “You know, I’ve heard of a solicitor murdering a rival solicitor or trying to, but never of one murdering his own partner. Partners may hate each other pretty cordially, but they are generally necessary to each other—necessary evils, I suppose, we call each other. Tuesday night—now, where was I? Good lord, I haven’t one. An alibi, I mean. Of all the luck! That was the night I drove out to see old Sir Norris Langley. Every year he gives me a cheque for Hopewell House, but he likes to be asked for it, and it all depends on my putting him in a good humour whether it’s in one or two figures—varies from £5 to £50 according to his mood. Generally nearer the £50 I’m glad to say.”
“Well, then, if you saw Sir Norris—” began Bobby, but Blythe interrupted.
“Unluckily I didn’t,” he said. “That’s the devil of it. When I was nearly at his place I remembered suddenly that he was in town, trying to get back into harness. Like all the rest of us, he wants a war job; and like all the rest of us who aren’t as young as we were, he’s finding he’s not wanted. Too old at forty is the cry to-day when jobs are being handed out. So I turned round and drove back home again. And no alibi.”
“You didn’t meet anyone, speak to anyone, call anywhere?”
Blythe shook his head.
“No confirmation whatever,” he admitted. “Only, oddly enough, if I can’t give you an alibi for myself I can for my glove. It happens that I tore it slightly on the Sunday—you’ll see where if you look at the tip of the thumb. One of my lads is a leather worker. I gave it him on Monday night to mend. It was in his possession all Tuesday and I only got it back on Wednesday morning. Lander, that’s our Hopewell House porter, sent one of the lads round to my house with it. So, if I did murder Anderson, I certainly hadn’t that glove with me at the time, and I suppose I would hardly take the trouble to go back to the scene of my crime to leave my glove there.”
Bobby smiled faintly.
“Hardly,” he agreed. “That clears it up in one sense. Makes it more difficult in another.”
“You will want to get that confirmed, I suppose,” Blythe said. “You can ask Lander. Lander will almost certainly have a note of it in his book. He’s a very particular person. I’m pretty sure he’ll be able to show you the entry, dated and initialled probably.”
“That’ll be more than good enough,” Bobby said. “Do you mind if I send my sergeant?”
“I should much prefer it,” said Blythe crisply.
Bobby asked to be excused for a moment and left Blythe alone in the room while he went to find Wright and give him the necessary instructions.
“There’s something else I want you to do,” Bobby added. “It’s been worrying me all day but I’ve only just got it clear in my mind. This morning when I went to see Osman Ford, Mrs Ford made a great fuss about not trusting him, about thinking he might be meeting some girl or another on the quiet. At the time I took it for eye-wash, but I’ve been thinking since that it may have been eye-wash and yet had something in it, too. There may be some reason why she thought of that particular excuse. So I want you to make a few discreet inquiries and try to find out if there is any gossip of that sort—either that Mrs Ford is jealous or that her husband gives her any reason for it.” “Very good, sir,” said Wright, and went off on his two errands; while Bobby went back to his room, apologising there for having left Blythe so long alone.
“Have you been long?” Blythe asked. “I hadn’t noticed. Something else up your sleeve, I suppose. That’s all right. No business of mine. You know, it’s worrying. This glove business, I mean. I’ve been thinking. I can take it you are satisfied your informant is telling the truth and that the glove was really found where he says?”
“No,” answered Bobby at once. “I’m not. There’s no corroboration. The story may be an invention for all we can tell. The only thing certain—there is supporting evidence—is that it was thrown into the canal by the person who claims to have found it where I said. If that is false, if it is just a lie invented to throw suspicion on you, then we shall have to consider whether the finder of the glove isn’t the actual murderer.”
“That would mean a deliberate attempt to implicate me?”
“We thought of that possibility from the first,” Bobby said.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Blythe remarked. “Very glad. It’s a disturbing idea all the same. If it’s a deliberate attempt to make me seem guilty—”
He left the sentence unfinished. He looked extremely disturbed. Naturally so, Bobby supposed. Bobby said:
“It suggests you have an enemy. Do you know of one?”
“Not a pleasant thought,” Blythe said. “No. Not that I know of. Not like that. Of course, I’ve had my little disagreements. And there are people I’ve had to press in the interests of our clients, who may have thought themselves badly treated. Disappointed clients of our own, too, for that matter, who thought we ought to have done better for them. But matter for a blackguardly trick like this—emphatically no.”
“You can’t make any suggestion, then?”
“No. It would mean there was someone deliberately trying to get me hanged. Good God. I just can’t believe it.”
Bobby did not speak. But he looked thoughtfully at
the glove still lying on his table and Blythe saw the direction of his glance and nodded in agreement.
“Yes, there’s always that, isn’t there?” he said. After a pause he added: “I wonder if it was known that I was making a useless journey and so very likely wouldn’t have an alibi for that particular evening?”
“Could anyone have known?” Bobby asked. “Did you mention it to anyone in the office or anywhere else?”
“Now, did I?” Blythe asked himself.
He wasn’t sure, he said finally. He couldn’t remember for certain. He had had the visit to Sir Norris in his mind for some time, but he had only decided to make it that Tuesday on the morning of the same day when he had had a letter putting off an appointment arranged for the evening. So, finding himself unexpectedly free, and as he had told the Hopewell House people not to expect his usual visit, he had thought the opportunity a good one for the contemplated visit to Sir Norris. He might, he thought, quite easily have mentioned that intention to almost any one. Quite possibly he might have said something to, or in the hearing of, Miss Harris, who took down his letters. If he had done so, she, in her turn, being a little chatterbox, might easily have mentioned it to any other of the staff. After all, there was nothing secret or confidential about his change of plan.
“What it comes to,” said Bobby at last, for Blythe had rambled a little in these efforts at recollection, “is that almost anyone might have known, but there’s no telling.”
“I’m afraid that’s about it,” agreed Blythe. “Not much help, is it?”
Bobby agreed that in fact it was anything but helpful.
“It makes one feel very uncomfortable,” Blythe said again. “It does seem someone is deliberately trying to make me look like poor Anderson’s murderer. I don’t see how else to explain the disappearance of my glove and its being found where you say. Planned and deliberate,” he said, shaking his head. “Incredible. Only—there it is.”
The Dark Garden: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 15
