by John Bude
“Police,” said Meredith curtly. “I want a word with you, Mrs. Pearson.”
The woman’s tones, at once, grew more conciliatory, and, after effusive apologies, she drew in her head and came downstairs to open the door. Once in the steamy warmth of the Pearsons’ kitchen-parlour, Meredith got down to the job in hand. He knew from long experience that a certain officiousness was all to the good when questioning a woman of Mrs. Pearson’s type and mentality. Not that she appeared in any way hostile. She seemed to be trembling, in fact, with a fervent eagerness to propitiate the law.
“It’s about that lad of yours,” began Meredith sternly.
Mrs. Pearson looked startled.
“You don’t come here to tell me that he’s got himself into more trouble, Inspector?”
“No, not this time. It’s about that window-breaking affair some time back. You remember?”
“I do!” was Mrs. Pearson’s emphatic reply. “And I don’t doubt that the lad does, too. His dad gave him a good welting such as he deserved. I hope there’s to be no further fuss over it, sir.”
“It’s not that,” explained Meredith. “It’s about a green felt hat and a false moustache.”
Again Mrs. Pearson looked startled.
“You’re not accusing my boy of stealing that hat, are you?”
“I have my suspicions,” was Meredith’s cryptic answer.
“Then you’re wrong,” said Mrs. Pearson with a sudden flash of spirit. “Andy may be a bad boy but he never was a thief! You’ll not make me believe that! He told me where he got that hat, Inspector. He never took it. He found it accidental like, when he was playing up the beck near Portinscale.”
“Found it!” Meredith could scarcely conceal his elation. “When was that?”
“Maybe a month ago. Maybe more. I can’t remember rightly. But Andy might be able to tell you.”
“Very well,” said Meredith. “I’ll have to talk to Master Andy. What time does he come out of school?”
“Sounds like him coming up the path now,” observed Mrs. Pearson. “That’s his whistle right enough.”
Mrs. Pearson’s supposition proved right, for the next instant the door was flung open and Andy burst into the room, calling out that he was hungry and was his dinner ready? On seeing the Inspector, he stopped dead. His self-confidence oozed out of him like air out of a pricked balloon. He just stood on the mat shuffling his feet, casting uneasy eyes in Meredith’s direction, evidently wondering which of his sins he was about to answer for.
“Well, sonny,” grinned Meredith. “Been behaving yourself?” The boy nodded and gulped. “No more window-breaking?”
“No, sir,” came the husky assurance.
“Now I want you to answer one or two questions. And I want the truth, mind you! First of all, where did you get that green hat you were wearing when I caught you breaking the window. Remember the one I mean?”
The boy nodded. “Aye—that’s my gunman’s hat, that is. Found it, I did, sir.”
“Where?”
“By the Portinscale bridge, sir, when me and Jim Turner was playing pirates.”
“And the moustache?”
“It was inside the hat, sir, when I picked it up.”
Meredith could have cried aloud with joy! So the two objects were connected! If he wasn’t on the right track this time, he’d eat his own hat, peak and all! Just managing to keep the elation out of his voice, he went on:
“Find anything else, sonny?”
“Yessir. It’s in there.”
“Then let’s have a look.”
The boy crossed to the dresser, opened a drawer and took out a small object, which he placed in Meredith’s outstretched hand. One glance sufficed to convince the Inspector that he had not wasted his time in coming to interview Master Andy Pearson! If the hat and the moustache had been a pure matter of coincidence, this, at any rate, was more than sufficient to dispel the idea. A spanner! A blue spanner! Blue, the colour of the Nonock bulk-wagons! The colour of all the fittings and equipment connected with the firm. But why a spanner?
“And where did you pick this up exactly?”
“Inside the hat too, sir. Rolled in the hat.”
“Rolled in it!”
Meredith almost shouted. A green felt hat, wrapped round a blue spanner and a Hitler moustache, picked up by Andy Pearson beside the Portinscale bridge. In a flash Meredith saw the whole thing. The swift-flowing beck under the bridge, the speeding bolt-wagon on its way back to Penrith, Prince leaning out of the cab and hurling——!
In a furore of impatience he turned to the bewildered boy.
“Now look here, sonny—I want you to come out with me to Portinscale bridge and show me exactly where you found that hat. Understand?” He swung round on Mrs. Pearson. “I’ll get him back in time to have his dinner before he returns to school. Come on, my lad.”
Half-running, the boy followed Meredith to the police garage, where the Inspector wheeled out the combination and dumped his excited young passenger in the side-car. A swift run brought them to a point near Portinscale, where the old stone bridge seemed to hump itself sulkily over the shallow, fast-flowing beck, with its feet planted on either bank.
“Now then,” said Meredith, “which side of the beck did you find it?”
“Just down there, sir,” replied Andy, pointing to where a path meandered along the left bank of the stream. “Over that stile.”
When they had crossed the stile into the meadow, Meredith allowed the boy to take the lead. After a moment’s hesitation he seemed to make up his mind about the exact spot and started off at a sudden trot down the slope of the meadow. Reaching the edge of the bank, about some fifteen feet from the bridge, he stopped dead and pointed down into a thick fringe of rushes which lined both sides of the swirling waterway.
“Just here, sir.”
“Sure?”
The boy nodded eagerly.
“There’s the stones what Jim Turner and me laid on the mud afore we could reach the hat.”
“And the hat was lying?”
“Right on the edge of the reeds, sir. Nearly in the water.”
“Good. Now can you remember when you and Jim Turner found that hat?”
“Sunday it was. ‘Cause Jim had his best suit on. He got in hot water for it when he got back home, sir!”
“Last Sunday?”
The boy shook his head decisively.
“Long time afore that. Jest after my birthday.”
“Your birthday, eh? When’s that?”
“Nineteenth of March, sir.”
“Right. Now we’ll go back.” Once on their way, Meredith asked, “Have you still got that hat and moustache?” The boy nodded and looked a trifle disconcerted. “It’s all right, sonny,” Meredith assured him, “I only want to borrow them for a time. I’ll let you have ‘em back.”
“You see,” explained Andy, “it’s my gunman’s hat. I’m chief of the gang and I couldn’t go about without a hat.”
“Quite,” said Meredith, amused, as they drew up at the Pearsons’ gate. Then slipping a shilling into the boy’s somewhat grubby palm, he added: “Now don’t you tell anybody I gave you that. You can buy something at the toy shop, see?”
There was no doubt that Andy was quick to seize the point, and after Meredith had collected the hat and the moustache, he jumped on to his bike and drove back to the police station.
Once in his office he placed the two hats side by side on his desk and realized, with a thrill of satisfaction, that they were practically identical. Although Prince had probably bought a new hat he had evidently gone to the troubling of soiling the felt and pulling it out of shape. Inside the crown, as Meredith had anticipated, there was no hint as to the maker’s or retailer’s name. If there had been a label then Prince had taken care to rip it off before throwing it from the lorry. Not that Meredith attached much importance to the tracing of the sale. There no longer seemed any need for that! Here, on the direct route between the Derwent and the N
onock depot, was a discarded green felt hat, wrapped round a false moustache and a heavy blue spanner. It was now perfectly obvious that Prince had intended to sink these objects in mid-stream as the bulk wagon passed over Portinscale bridge. Unfortunately, he had misjudged the distance and the weighted hat had fallen on the edge of the reeds instead of in the water. Andy Pearson said that he had picked it up on the Sunday following his birthday. His birthday fell on the 19th of March, which meant that the boys had made their discovery on the 24th. And the crime had been committed on the night of the 23rd! So much for the hat.
Meredith now switched his attention over to the moustache. It was neatly made, of dark hair and designed to pinch on to the nostrils by means of two tiny metal clips. Standing before a mirror, the Inspector tried fixing it into position. He reckoned that Prince could have dealt with this part of his disguise in a couple of seconds. The moustache fitted neatly and securely into place and the result was astoundingly life-like. That it had been made by an expert was evident, but, as in the case of the hat, there was not the slightest clue to suggest where Prince had made his purchase. So much for the moustache.
Meredith was left with the dungarees. Had Prince thrown these from the lorry together with the hat? Or had he considered the article too bulky to be safely disposed of in this rather slip-shod manner? Had he seized on the only obvious alternative and burnt them? Meredith dealt with the two methods in the order in which they had occurred to him.
First—their disposal from the cab of the lorry. Wasn’t it possible that Prince had hung on to the dungarees and disposed of them later on during the homeward run? He might have marked down a spot some time before the murder had been committed where he considered the dungarees would be safe from discovery. A wayside pond perhaps. An isolated clump of gorse or brambles. There were hundreds of possibilities. He might even have retained the incriminating bundle until he reached the depot and smuggled it out without Dancy’s knowledge and perhaps hidden it in some innocent person’s dustbin. The more Meredith pondered the question, the more clearly he realized the hopelessness of the task which lay ahead of him. It would mean an exhaustive search of every inch of the roadside between the Derwent and the depot, coupled with a somewhat belated notice in the Penrith papers for information concerning an old suit of buff dungarees. And if Prince had dumped the bundle in a dustbin the chances were that this priceless bit of evidence had been destroyed weeks ago in the municipal incinerators! Meredith sighed. Could the police hope for a conviction on the evidence of the hat, the moustache and the blue spanner alone? Certainly, combined with other bits of circumstantial evidence, there was ample justification for arrest. But what about those twelve “good men and true” who would be called upon to bring in the verdict?
Meredith felt certain that those dungarees would have to be found. But what if they had been destroyed?
This brought him to his second point. Had Prince smuggled the dungarees out of the depot unnoticed and later burnt them? To do this he would need time and privacy and a reasonable chance of being uninterrupted. This naturally suggested his lodgings or, if he were married, his rooms or cottage. It would further call for some means of walking out of the depot with the dungarees, without arousing Dancy’s curiosity. Rose, of course, didn’t enter in, because he was mixed up with the racket and almost certainly had knowledge of the murder. Meredith decided that his first move should be a visit to Dancy at 24 Eamont Villas. He glanced at his watch. One forty-five. He could not get a private interview with the yard-man, therefore, until some time after six. In the meantime how had he best fill in the intervening hours? First another examination of the spot where Andy Pearson had found the hat, then a slow journey to Penrith, ear-marking probable localities where the dungarees might be concealed.
He returned to Greystoke Road, therefore, and after a hasty lunch drove out to Portinscale bridge. There he made a lengthy and exhaustive search not only of the banks of the river, but, clad in waders, of the bed of the river itself. But all to no account. There was no sign of the missing dungarees. He did not dismiss the possibility that the bundle might have been carried down-stream by the swiftly-flowing waters, but until he had explored all other avenues of investigation, he determined to leave this part of the search in abeyance.
Then followed a long and annoying reconnoitre of the full nineteen miles of roadside between the Derwent and the depot. Again and again Meredith drew up, made a quick survey of a likely hiding-place and jotted down its position in his note-book. It was not until six o’clock that he drew level with the depot and passed on his spasmodic journey to Penrith.
At six-thirty he turned into the end of Careleton Street and drew up before number 24 Eamont Villas. As luck would have it, Dancy had just returned from work and was sitting over his tea in his shirt-sleeves. On seeing the Inspector, he made a sign for his wife to retire into the kitchen and waved Meredith to a chair.
“More trouble, Inspector?”
Meredith laughed genially.
“You’re like all the rest of them, Mr. Dancy! They all suspect that my appearance heralds trouble! In this case I can assure you there’s no cause for alarm. I’m after my usual quarry—information. Nothing more. Can I go ahead?”
“Do,” said Dancy, putting on his pipe and tilting his chair back from the table.
“About that Saturday night once again. I want you to cast your mind back to when Prince and Bettle left the depot after they had garaged No. 4. Were either of them carrying anything under their arms? A brown paper parcel for example?”
Dancy sucked meditatively at his pipe. Then he shook his head.
“No—they had nothing of that nature with ‘em as far as I can remember. Mind you, it’s over a month ago. I may be wrong, Inspector.”
“Think again. You feel sure that they were carrying nothing.”
“Well,” corrected Dancy, “nothing unusual that is. Such as a parcel or the like.”
“Then they were carrying something,” snapped out Meredith eagerly.
“Of course they were,” replied Dancy stolidly. “Their dinner-baskets. But there wasn’t anything queer about that, was there?”
Meredith hastened to reassure the yard-man.
“No. I quite see that, Mr. Dancy. Tell me—how big are these dinner-baskets?”
Dancy illustrated their approximate size.
“About like that, I reckon.’
“Large enough to take a rolled-up boiler-suit, for example?”
“Easy,” said Dancy with a puzzled look. “But I don’t quite——”
“I suppose you didn’t see either Bettle or Prince stuffing anything like a coat or a boiler-suit into them on that particular Saturday night?”
“They may have done,” answered Dancy judicially. “But if they did, I didn’t see ‘em!”
Satisfied that he had got all possible information from Dancy, Meredith thanked him, called out “good night” to his wife and let himself out into Careleton Street.
It was obvious that his next move was to pay a visit to Prince’s and Bettle’s lodgings. According to their signed depositions they were housed by a Mrs. Arkwright at 9 Brockman’s Row, Penrith.
He realized, however, that he’d have to postpone his visit to Mrs. Arkwright until the following morning. He didn’t want the lorry-men drifting in whilst he was in the middle of a cross-examination. He, therefore, returned direct to Keswick, where he got through to Thompson and reported on the progress of his investigations.
Shortly after ten-thirty the next day, however, he turned out of the Penrith High Street and found his way to number 9 Brockman’s Row. In answer to his knock the door was opened by a stout, genial looking woman of about forty. Ascertaining that this was Mrs. Arkwright herself, Meredith explained that he was a police inspector. He believed Mrs. Arkwright could supply him with certain important information. Would she be good enough to do so?
Much impressed by the solemnity of the Inspector’s voice, she ushered him into an airless, sunless l
ittle drawing-room full of ferns and aspidistras. Seating herself on the extreme edge of an elaborately upholstered sofa she faced Meredith with a look of defiant respectability. It was rather as if she was saying: “There may be trouble somewhere but I’m quite sure it has nothing to do with me!” Virtue was rampant in the very attitude of her somewhat portly person.
“Now, Mrs. Arkwright,” began Meredith, “I understand that a gentleman by the name of Mr. Prince lodges with you here?”
“That’s right, sir,” replied the landlady promptly. “Him and Mr. Bettle. They share the room across the passage there and the bedroom over this. I hope Mr. Prince hasn’t got himself into trouble?”
“Oh, nothing to speak of,” was Meredith’s light answer. “How long have these two gentlemen been with you?”
“About three years now, sir.”
“Ever had any cause for complaint?”
Mrs. Arkwright hesitated a moment, glanced across uneasily at the Inspector and finally elected to remain silent.
“Now don’t you worry, Mrs. Arkwright,” Meredith reassured her. “Anything you may care to tell me will be treated in the strictest confidence. You needn’t answer my questions unless you want to.”
“Well, sir, I don’t like to talk about the private doings of my gentlemen. After all, this is their home if you see how I mean?”
“Quite. I appreciate your feelings.”
“But since you promise not to let things go any further I don’t mind telling you that I’m fair worried by that Mr. Prince. It’s the drink, see? He doesn’t seem able to keep away from the public house.”
“And he sometimes returns home at night—er—rather the worse for wear, eh? Is that it?”
Mrs. Arkwright nodded.
“And of late it’s got worse, sir. Once or twice I’ve been fair frightened, what with him and Mr. Bettle argufying and knocking things about in their room. Mind you, it’s Mr. Prince that makes all the bother. Mr. Bettle would be quiet enough if it wasn’t for Mr. Prince.”
