Inspector Lamb looked glum. Vincent Bell laughed again.
“I haven’t got any alibi. But say, Captain, why do I have to have one? Monday night Dale was getting himself bumped off. Naturally, you want to know what everyone in the house was doing. That’s O.K., but what’s all this getting busy over when I went for a walk, or whether I had a bath tonight? Dale’s dead, isn’t he? Do I have to have someone around to give me an alibi every place I go? What’s the big idea?”
“Do you ride a motor-bicycle, Mr. Bell?”
Vincent’s eyes sharpened.
“Not if I can get an automobile,” he said.
“Did you ride one tonight?”
The sharp gaze became a wary one?
“I told you I went walking.”
“Where did you go? Did you meet anyone?”
“Now let me see—I went down the drive and turned to the left, and up a hill, and around and about. And I didn’t what you’d call meet anyone. There was a car or two, and a petting party going on by a field gate, but they wouldn’t be taking any interest in me.”
“You didn’t ride a motor-bicycle into Ledlington and pay a call on Miss Cora de Lisle?”
Vincent Bell whistled.
“That dame! What would I be wanting to pay a call on her for?”
“I don’t know. Did you know her?”
“No, I didn’t. I saw her go away the morning she came here to see Dale. He talked about her afterwards—said she was poison and he was well quit of her—said she’d do him a mischief if she could, but he’d see to it she didn’t.”
“You ought to have told us all that before,” said Lamb quickly.
Vincent said, “Oh, well—” and then, “It was just Dale’s way of talking. I don’t suppose she’d a thing to do with it—looked kind of down and out to me. And that’s where Dale was foolish. He’d money to burn—why couldn’t he pay her alimony and keep her quiet? He didn’t give her a cent—of course she was sore.” As he talked, his eyes went from Lamb to Abbott.
Frank Abbott said,
“Did you see her tonight?”
“I never saw her at all but the once she was over here.”
“You didn’t go into Ledlington this evening?”
“No, I didn’t. And I’m asking you again what’s all this about?” He pushed back his chair and got up, his eyes bright and intent. “Ledlington—and a motor-bicycle—and Cora de Lisle—and an alibi—what’s it all about? Looks to me as if something had happened to Cora de Lisle. Is that what you’re getting at?”
Inspector Lamb said sharply, “What makes you think that, Mr. Bell?”
“Wouldn’t anyone think of it, Captain?”
Lamb looked at him hard and said, “Cora de Lisle probably saw Dale shot. Somebody knocked her on the head round about half past six this evening in Ledlington.”
“And you think it might have been me?”
“It was someone who was afraid she might be going to give him away,” said Inspector Lamb.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Some time later Vincent Bell came into the inner hall. Mr. Montague Phipson was setting his watch by the grandfather clock. He turned about and came to meet him.
“This is a very strange affair,” he said with a mixture of nervousness and formality in his manner. An onlooker might have thought that, much as Mr. Phipson disliked his present company, he yet considered it in the circumstances to be better than no company at all. “Perhaps if I might have a word with you—” He opened the drawing-room door as he spoke and put on all the lights.
The candles in their gilt sconces lit up the old-ivory panelling, the polished floor, the dim lovely colours of the Persian rugs, the graceful Adam mantelpiece, and the long, straight folds of blue which curtained the four tall windows.
Mr. Phipson shut the door and came into the middle of the room. He thought it had a dead feeling. It was warm because of the central heating installed by Lucas Dale, but no fire had been lighted here for the past two days, and the air felt dead. He cleared his throat, straightened his pince-nez, and repeated the words which he had used in the hall.
“This is a very strange affair. I really cannot make it out. Why should the Inspector ask us all these questions? I have been in my room all the evening, but why does he want to know where I have been? It seems to me extremely intrusive. Are we to account for every moment of our time?”
Vincent surveyed him with a twinkle in his eye.
“Well, that’s how I put it to him myself.”
“And what did he say to that? Did he tell you why they were asking all these questions? I am sure I am most willing to assist the police in the execution of their duties, but I think we are entitled to an explanation.”
“Oh, there’s an explanation all right,” said Vincent Bell rather soberly. “There’s been another murder—that’s what.”
“Another murder!” Mr. Phipson’s voice was shrill with horror.
“Cora de Lisle,” said Vincent Bell.
Mr. Phipson had to retrieve his glasses. They slipped from his nose and hung dangling. He put them on crooked, and said in a shaking voice,
“Miss de Lisle?”
“Knocked on the head in Ledlington at half past six this evening—that’s what the Inspector says. And that’s why they want to know what you and I were doing between six and seven, Sonny boy.”
Mr. Phipson disregarded the insult.
“Murder!” he said. “But why? Why should anyone have murdered her?”
He got a shrewd glance.
“Old Lamb seems to think she knew more than was good for her—seems to think she knew who bumped Dale off. Say, did he ask you if you rode a motor-bicycle? Because that’s what he asked me—seemed to think the guy who bumped her off took a ride to Ledlington on a motor-bicycle.”
Mr. Phipson’s face expressed horror.
“No—oh, no—he didn’t ask me that.”
“And do you ride a motor-bicycle?” said Vincent Bell. It didn’t seem likely, but it amused him to see the little man wince and wriggle.
“No—oh, no—oh, certainly not.”
“Then you’re in luck.”
Mr. Phipson dropped his glasses again. He did not put them on immediately, but let them dangle while he blinked at Vincent with his near-sighted eyes.
“Oh, dear me—what a terrible thing! Do you mean to say that the unfortunate woman has actually been murdered?”
“That seems to be the idea, Sonny boy.”
“Don’t call me that!”
Vincent Bell dropped his tone of badinage.
“Quit acting like it then. The woman’s been killed, and they want to know who killed her. There’s something behind this motor-bicycle stuff. Who’s got one here?”
Mr. Phipson took out a silk pocket-handkerchief and began to polish his glasses.
“Robert—” he said in a meditative tone. “He keeps it in the yard.”
“I suppose old Lamb is wise to that? I shouldn’t pick Robert for a killer myself.”
Mr. Phipson replaced his pince-nez and answered the first part of this remark.
“I don’t know—it might be one’s duty—” He moved a little nearer the door. “Oh, dear me—how very upsetting! My window looks out upon the yard. I’m really very much afraid that it may be my duty to let the police know that I heard the motor-bicycle go out—now, let me see, when would it have been? I had just finished drafting an advertisement for the Times—I have, naturally, to seek re-employment—and I think—yes, I am sure it was about six o’clock. Did you hear anything?”
“No—I was out at six.” Vincent spoke carelessly and without thought. It was not until he noticed a most peculiar expression on Mr. Phipson’s face that he realized the possible implications of what he had just said.
“Oh, dear me,” said Montague Phipson—“you went out at six. How very unfortunate—for you—and perhaps for Miss de Lisle.”
Vincent glared.
“What do you mean by that? If it’s you
r idea of a wisecrack, you’ll be doing it once too often!”
Mr. Phipson reached the door and stood ready to open it.
“You had better be careful. If you threaten me, I shall not hesitate to call for help, and it will then be my clear duty to inform the police that not only did I hear that motor-bicycle start up just after six o’clock, but that I went and looked out of my window, and to the best of my belief it was not Robert who was taking it out. The yard was dark of course, but I have very good night sight—short-sighted people not uncommonly have—and I am prepared to swear that the rider was a smaller man than Robert. You,” said Mr. Phipson gently, “are a smaller man than Robert.”
Vincent Bell said something vigorously unprintable. Then he was controlled again.
“What sort of fool story is this?” he inquired in a hard voice of rage.
Mr. Phipson clutched the door handle. At the slightest threat of violence he would turn it and call for help. He said so between chattering teeth.
“If you attack me, I shall feel no further hesitation.”
“So you’re hesitating, are you?”
“In certain circumstances,” said Mr. Phipson cautiously, “I might feel that it was not my business.”
“Meaning?”
“I think I must leave that to you.”
Vincent Bell made a movement which was almost immediately checked. He might be tempted, but he did not mean to fall. It would hardly help to clear him if he were found wringing this little rat’s neck. He plunged his hands deep in his pockets and said,
“Blackmail?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call it that,” said Mr. Phipson mildly.
“The police would.”
“But they won’t have the chance. It would be most unfortunate for you if they did, because it would be only your word against mine, and I should still have heard and seen that motor-bicycle.”
Vincent Bell stood quite still and looked him over.
“Poison—aren’t you? With all this bumping off going on, it’s a plain pity nobody thought about you.”
“I shall call for help,” said Mr. Phipson hurriedly.
“You needn’t bother. How much do you want?”
Mr. Phipson heaved a sigh of relief. Violence was always so regrettable, and there had already been far too much of it.
“Well, you have to consider that I may be out of a job for some time. When you used an extremely regrettable word just now, I think you perhaps failed to take into consideration the fact that compensation is not unusual where prospects have been impaired or forfeited.”
“So I killed Dale, and I’m to compensate you for the loss of your job. Is that it?”
“You might put it that way. It would, of course, be perfectly clear to the police that the person who killed Miss de Lisle would be the person who shot Mr. Dale. I think reasonable compensation for my loss of employment is—er—not unreasonable.”
“And what do you call reasonable compensation?”
“A thousand pounds,” said Mr. Phipson with a slight tremor in his voice.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Inspector Lamb had been quite right about Mrs. Green. Torn between a desire to accompany Lily to King’s Bourne and an urge to be the first to convey such exciting news to the Little House, she decided after a brief struggle upon the latter course. At King’s Bourne she would have had to play second fiddle to Lily—she might not even have been admitted to the study whilst Lily made her statement—but at the Little House she would have the field all to herself. She had carried many pieces of news in her time, but never anything so exciting as this. She put on her Sunday hat and coat, and after a heartening contest with William Cole, who had arrived to find Lily gone and was consequently in the worst of tempers, she slammed and locked her front door and stepped across the village street.
The Little House was only a couple of hundred yards away, yet Mrs. Green arrived there quite out of breath with excitement and hurry. Susan, opening the door to her knock, wondered what could possibly have happened. Then, with a sickening leap of the heart, she began to be afraid.
“Oh, Mrs. Green, what is it?”
“Miss Susan my dear, I had to come and tell you.”
Susan caught at the newel-post of the stair.
“Bill?” she said with lips that barely moved.
“Now, my dear, don’t you take on. I wouldn’t have hurried myself like I have if I’d been bringing you bad news—stands to reason I wouldn’t.”
Susan shut her eyes for a moment.
“It isn’t bad news?”
Mrs. Green fanned herself with a clean pocket-handkerchief.
“Stands to reason it wouldn’t be. You wouldn’t think so little of me as that! If I run myself out of breath, which I have and no mistake, it’s on account of what you said to me this morning. ‘Let me know’, you said, ‘if so be you hear anything’. And first minute I got Lily off and had a word with William Cole that come in behaving himself as if he was Hitler—that directly minute I put on my hat and run over.”
Susan opened the dining-room door.
“Better come in here.”
For the moment her relief was beyond words—just that immediate relief which does not look ahead. Then it changed to suspense. But there was no way of hurrying Mrs. Green. She would take her time and tell her tale in her own way.
The dining-room table was strewn with large sheets of drawing-paper. Bill Carrick, with a pencil in his hand and a determined frown upon his brow, was concentrating upon the possible plumbing problems of Mr. Gilbert Garnish. When he lifted his head and beheld Mrs. Green the frown deepened involuntarily.
Susan put a hand on his shoulder.
“Bill, Mrs. Green has come to tell us something—good news—you did say good news, didn’t you?” Her voice implored Mrs. Green—or fate—to let the news be good.
Mrs. Green regarded them with benevolence. She was not offended by the frown, because men were all alike the way they looked at you if you interrupted them when they were doing anything. You’d think they hated the very sight of you if you didn’t know better. She took the chair which Susan had pulled out for her, loosened her coat at the neck, and told them what Lily had seen on Monday evening.
“Oh, Mrs. Green!” Susan took hold of one of her hands and squeezed it.
Bill Carrick had turned pale. Gilbert Garnish’s drains dazzled before his eyes. He pushed the sheets away.
“Lily is sure she saw Miss de Lisle—she couldn’t be making a mistake?”
Mrs. Green turned a glowing face upon him.
“Now would I be coming here to tell you if she wasn’t sure?”
“I don’t know,” said Bill. “That’s the point—is she sure?”
“Certain sure. Lily isn’t one to say she seen anyone if she didn’t. A truthfuller girl doesn’t live though I say it. The best eyes in the village too—and I don’t mean for looks only. No, Mr. Bill, if Lily said she seen her, then she seen her and there’s no getting from it. William Cole, he tried hard enough to stop her letting on, but I had it out of her, and I had it out with him when he come round just now. He needn’t think he can come it over me like he does over her. ‘No,’ I said, ‘Lily’s not here, William’, I said, ‘and if you want to know where she is, she’s gone back up to King’s Bourne to tell the police what she did ought to have told them Monday night, and what she would have told them if so be as you hadn’t carried on like you hadn’t got any right to. Look at the talk and trouble you’ve brought on Mr. Bill and Miss Susan making Lily hold her tongue like that. You did ought to be ashamed of yourself’, I said. Well, he flared up properly, I can tell you. Jealous, that’s what he is. Said all Lily wanted was to get her picture in the papers, and to put herself forward to be took notice of by the London police. And I said to him, ‘William Cole, you’re just plain jealous, and a jealous husband’s like having a stone in your shoe, it don’t get any better as you go along, and if I’ve any say, you won’t never be any husband of Lily’s,’ I
said. And with that he said something he shouldn’t and banged the door and off down the street on his bicycle.”
Bill pushed back his chair and got up. Mrs. Green would go on like this till all was blue, and he couldn’t stand any more of it. Was this story of Lily’s going to make any difference, or wasn’t it? Was it dawn after nightmare, or was it only a spark of hope which might peter out and leave them in the dark again?
He stood by Susan for a moment and pulled her round to face him. He was frightfully pale.
“I’m going out—I’ve got to think. I’ll try and give Lane the slip. Don’t build too much, Susan.”
For a moment Mrs. Green might not have been there. Susan looked at him and said with quivering lips,
“I must have something.”
He put his cheek against hers. The grip of his hands hurt her. Then he straightened up, let go of her, and went out through the kitchen.
Mrs. Green dabbed her eyes.
“Don’t you take on, my dear,” she said. “A nice walk’ll do him all the good in the world. I could see how he was when I come in. I’ve often thought it funny about men. When a woman’s upset in her mind what she wants is a lay down on her bed or a nice cup of tea, but men’s all the same, they want to get outside—can’t stay in the house, and don’t want to be fussed round. Walk miles they will, where a woman’ll set down and cry. Of course if they’re the drinking sort they’ll be down to the Magpie. But that’s not Mr. Bill’s way. He isn’t the drinking kind, and you’ve got to be thankful for that.” She dabbed her eyes and said in a choked voice, “Lily’s father was. And that’s why I take on about Lily. If you’ve had a bad husband yourself you know what it means. And I don’t say William drinks, for he don’t, but an overmastering, dictating, domineering king of the castle he is, and there’s no getting from it. And that don’t make for a happy life whether you take it lying down same as Lily does, or standing up and giving him back as good as you get, which ’ud be my way.”
Who Pays the Piper?: An Ernest Lamb Mystery Page 21
