“Only one man would perhaps know of it,” Garth answered, alert again. “The chauffeur! In the back of Valerie’s car are unexplained fingerprints. They belong to somebody not yet identified — and those same prints are in the flat. In view of having found a motive, however hazy it may be, I’m going to check Dick’s fingerprints on those of the glass that contained b. and s. And since the prints are in the car the chauffeur must obviously have known the identity of the person — therefore he had to be removed.”
“But no fingerprints to prove the chauffeur’s killer,” Whittaker said, clamping down on the essentials of logic.
“No. The absence of which points again to a mind remarkably agile in foreseeing police procedure…”
“You have a possible motive, sir,” Whittaker said, “and other points, to a degree, fit inwealth, position, etceteras. But isn’t there something stronger?”
“Yes, the nickname of “Ricky”,” Garth answered him. “It is the same nickname which Valerie had for Rixton Williams, and it was on that note left in the Twickenham house. I’ve been through all the letters — the one from Twickenham in particular — and one fact emerges. Namely, that Richard Harvey — granting that it is he — took advantage of the fact that Valerie always wrote to him with only the day instead of the date at the top of her letters. We know that that particular letter from Twickenham is a year old at least, so the assumption is that Harvey — possessing the letter — made an appointment as Rixton Williams, knowing he was on safe ground because he already had the answer in Valerie’s own handwriting. Understand? He made it look as if he had written Valerie and that she answered him accepting his proposition. He insisted that she come to his home, which fitted in perfectly with her pre-written answer. It made it seem she really was in love with Rixton Williams and went to see him of her own free will.”
“Crikey!” Whittaker said blankly. “Yes!”
“The name of “Rixton Williams” is the next significant thing — a Christian name of such a phonetic sound that it could abbreviate to “Ricky” without seeming too outlandish; though, as I said earlier, “Rixy” would have been more appropriate. Thereby it matches the name “Ricky” on the pre-written note from Valerie…But, Whitty, the whole scheme is dependent on the name “Ricky” never being used again — or at least within hearing of anybody knowing Valerie, and particularly within hearing of the Police. Last night Dick’s fiancée used that name for him. I just caught it, and I never saw such a look of diabolical ferocity on a man’s face as there was at that moment. He grabbed the girl’s arm, pulled her away so violently she banged her leg on her chair…Well, from now on I don’t feel at all comfortable concerning Miss Joyce Prescott’s future.”
“Since the ink on that letter is over a year old,” Whittaker said slowly, “it means Mr. Harvey must have known Valerie that long ago.”
“Exactly — unless the evidence is somehow amazingly twisted.”
“Do you think Valerie Hadfield knew who Rixton Williams was?”
“I think that she must have done, finally — judging from her manner as described by Timothy Potter, but it is possible that she never expected anything dastardly was in store for her.” Garth got to his feet, crushed out his cheroot in the ashtray.
“The hunt for absolute proof comes next — but I’m willing to gamble that Richard Harvey and Rixton Williams are one and the same person…To leg him down will be difficult. But I’ll get him — sure as he’s born!”
His fist thumped firmly on his desk; then Garth smiled wryly. “Now I must be on my way to that damned inquest.”
CHAPTER XIV
Not knowing whether to feel disturbed or satisfied by Chief Inspector Garth’s manner, Richard lunched in the city and returned to Scotland Yard towards halfpast two to find Garth writing busily at his desk. He glanced up as Richard entered, no sign of hostility about him.
“Well, how did the inquest go?” Richard settled in the armchair by the doorway.
Garth shrugged. “It merely determined that Peter Cranston met his death at the hands of a person or persons unknown. The rest is up to me.”
“You’re pretty sure then that it was murder?”
“I have yet to see the man who can commit suicide by hitting himself in the back of the neck with a tyre-lever and then put the tyre-lever back,” Garth answered grimly.
Was there a sharp cutting edge in the voice? Richard sensed that Garth was holding something back, waiting to explode it at a chosen moment. But Garth prolonged the suspense by continuing with his writing, and Sergeant Whittaker typed away on his noiseless machine in the corner. Then at last Garth put his pen down, sat back, and selected a cheroot from his case.
“Dick,” he said quietly without looking at him, “why did you draw two thousand pounds in one pound notes from your bank on October eleventh, a week last Friday?”
“I thought you’d get round to it finally,” Richard said, sighing. “I’ve been scared stiff of you jumping to the wrong conclusion ever since I heard you mentioning that cash in Twickenham. Naturally, I didn’t have anything to do with the Valerie Hadfield business.”
“I never said that you did. I merely asked you why you drew two thousand in ones from your bank. I got back here after the inquest to find the first local bank reports coming through and one from your bank was among them. I went over and had a chat with the manager.”
“By what damned right?” Richard demanded angrily. “Look here, Garth, I know my rights as a citizen and you had no reason for making scandal about me — !”
“I made no scandal,” Garth said levelly, quite unmoved. “I merely checked up. Bank managers are accustomed to that when something is — er — not quite as it should be. I merely ask: why did you draw out two thousand in ones on the very day that Rixton Williams deposited a similar amount in a bank in Twickenham?”
Richard gave a crooked smile. “Just to show you how crazy you are, Garth, you can come and look at that two thousand in notes in my home this minute! In my safe! It can’t be there and disseminated about Twickenham as well, can it?”
“Granting it is the same two thousand, no,” Garth admitted.
“Damn you, Garth! What do you have to twist things for? Come and look for yourself!”
Garth smiled round his cheroot. “Maybe I will, just to take the damned impulsiveness out of you. Hang it all, Dick, I’m your friend and you know I have a job to do. I’m not throwing any accusations at you. I’m merely asking a question. Why did you withdraw two thousand pounds?”
“I did it to give to Howard Prescott’s orphanage — he’s founded one, as you may know. I felt that I should, seeing I’m going to marry his daughter. I’ve more money than I’ll ever need, and so…Well, just as a gift.”
“Mmmm…But why in one pound notes? Why not a cheque?”
“I was going to send it anonymously, and a cheque would have given me away, just as five or ten pound notes would have done had Prescott chosen to investigate. I didn’t want my act of — well, generosity, to be found out.”
“Uh-huh.” Garth drew hard on his cheroot. “Then you were going to send it? Why didn’t you? What held things up?”
“You are holding things up.” Richard told him calmly. “I was going to do it yesterday, then you blasted off about the two thousand in ones and I thought perhaps I’d better hold my horses.”
Garth thumped his chest. “I can’t see what difference that would have made. Two thousand couldn’t be in the orphanage and in Twickenham, any more than two thousand could be in your home and in Twickenham…” He got to his feet. “Anyway, I think I’ll come over to your place in the purely routine way and take a look at those two thousand notes. Just in the line of duty, you understand.”
Richard forced a grin and rose. “As you like. I’ve nothing to hide.”
“Y’know, you’re not entirely alone in being a drawer of two thousand in ones,” Garth added, grinning as he got into his overcoat. “I have reports of three other people at different banks
who also drew money in that form on the self-same day — all of them local enough to be a possible Rixton Williams. We’ll check back on them all, but since you’re the nearest I’ll start with you…” Garth turned and glanced at Whittaker as he still plugged the typewriter.
“Back later, Whitty. Try and get that report finished in detail for when I return: the Assistant Commissioner will want to see it.”
Richard followed Garth from the office and glanced questioningly as they emerged on the pavement opposite to his Jaguar.
“Might as well ride in your tub for a change,” Garth said. “I get a bit sick of that official car of mine.”
“Not often a suspect drives the Chief Inspector to the spot in question, is it, Garth?” Richard asked after a while, nosing through the traffic. “Co-operation to the nth degree, eh?”
“You’re not a suspect, Dick; you simply happen to have come straight in line with circumstantial evidence. I’ve got to check on it or else have the Assistant Commissioner jump down my throat. He’s already been asking me how much longer this Valerie Hadfield business is going to take.” Around three o’clock, they gained Richard’s home. The sprawling old-fashioned residence was no new place to Garth: he had been here before when pathological business for the Yard had demanded it — but his eyes did stray to the half-completed garage and remain there for a moment. Then he got out of the car in the driveway and waited for Richard to join him.
Together they entered the house and Richard led the way across the wide hall to his study, motioning Baxter away as he came shambling out of the back regions.
“Take a seat, Garth,” Richard invited briefly, nodding to a chair. “I’ll soon dispel your suspicions for you.”
Garth remained standing, his hat on the desk, his pale eyes watching Richard as he went to the safe and opened it. Taking out the two thousand one pound notes he had collected from M. Cardieux that morning he tossed them contemptuously on the desk.
“Do you want to count them?” he asked briefly.
“Counting or examining ‘em won’t do me any good, Dick, and you know it. Pound notes can’t be traced — not in the usual way; unless they’re marked or something beforehand. I only wanted to satisfy myself as to the truth of your statement so I can tell it to the Assistant Commissioner. I don’t like having to butt in on you like this, you know, and I appreciate the way you’ve helped me. You must realise I find my job distasteful sometimes.”
Richard picked the bundle of notes up again, put them back into the safe and closed the door. Then he went over to the cocktail cabinet. “Brandy-and-soda?” he asked.
Garth grinned. “Thanks for remembering the indigestion. Yes, I’d be glad of it.”
He turned aside to survey the room in its ordered cosiness. In an apparently idle glance, he noted everything he needed, and arrived at no conclusions worth retaining. Then Richard had come to him with the glass of brandy-and-soda held forth. They both drank with the easy calmness of old friends and at length Richard took the empty glasses and put them back on the cabinet.
“Well, Garth, what now? Satisfied I’m no suspect?”
“Good Lord, man, of course!” Garth clapped him on the shoulder and smiled. “You, of all people! As if you could be, knowing the array of power there is behind Scotland Yard…No, I’m quite satisfied, but now I am here I’d like to look at your laboratory — unless you’re on with something secret?”
Richard hesitated. To refuse would seem suspicious: to accept might be to gratify some unexplained curiosity that Garth was hiding behind his disarming smile.
“You can look around with pleasure — though I can’t think why you should want to. First you say you no longer suspect me, and then you ask to see my laboratory?”
“Purely as a friend, Dick.” Garth picked up his hat as he followed Richard into the hall. “That lab of yours has always had a curious fascination for me.”
Richard led the way into the annex and Garth strolled in, walking slowly down the space beside the centre benches and the right hand wall. Once again his pale eyes were darting everywhere. He turned as Richard caught up with him and stood looking round with hands pushed in his overcoat pockets.
“Lovely stuff you’ve got, Dick!” Garth wagged his head admiringly. “X-ray equipment, liquid air compressor…Everything of the best, eh? Mmm — and ground glass windows too. Don’t mean anybody peeping in, do you?”
“You know as well as I do, Garth, that I have to do important research jobs sometimes, and secrecy is vital.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
Garth’s gaze wandered to the rack where tools were fitted and then back again to a contemplation of the bench beside him. The movement of his eyes had been so swift that Richard had hardly noticed it: certainly he did not know that Garth had, in that one snapshotting glance, calculated the number and type of tools in the rack.
“Incidentally…” Garth turned from meditation. “Did I see a garage outside? I didn’t think you had one.”
“Why such interest?” Richard asked. “You did see one, as a matter of fact — part of one, anyway. But — ”
“I’m only wondering if you are building it yourself — though I suppose you must be otherwise the contractors would be working on it at this time of day.” Garth smiled. “You didn’t forget to tell all of us how you were building this annex, remember…Though why a man of your capabilities should stick bricks and mortar together for a hobby I don’t know. Still, since I do crossword puzzles for a spare time occupation I guess both of us are crazy!”
Richard motioned to the side door of the laboratory and opened it. Garth followed him outside and they stood looking at the half-completed structure, the walls part of the way up and the floor bedded down solid. Garth’s eyes wandered to a plane, saw, and general building tackle and materials.
“I’m building it for Joyce,” Richard explained, his iciness slowly thawing as he saw Garth was quite inoffensive. “She likes the Jaguar and there’s no sense in having it pushed away in a public garage when it can be on the premises. Didn’t matter for me alone but different when you have a wife.”
He waved a hand to the structure and for a moment Garth’s eyes sifted to an oval patch of plaster just above the inside of Richard’s wrist.
“Did you do that building this?” he questioned.
“Eh? Do what?” Richard turned to him quickly; then he understood. “Oh, my wrist? No, I did it in the lab — deep flesh cut on a piece of metal. Nothing serious.”
Garth said nothing. His gaze strayed to the bags of powder, to the concrete mixer, the stacked timber, the pyramid of bricks. Richard watched him intently, trying to make up his mind whether Garth was just casually curious or whether he was trying to prove some point of his own.
“Oh, Mr. Richard, sir…” Old Baxter appeared in the doorway of the laboratory. “There’s somebody on the telephone — wishes to speak to you.”
Richard muttered an excuse to Garth, then hurried back through the laboratory. Garth watched him go, smiled to himself and stepped back amidst the benches and test tubes. Quickly he searched under the benches until he came to that commonplace adjunct of any laboratory — the swab-bin. He looked inside it, shifted the waste rags about hurriedly, then whipped out a bloodstained piece of cotton wool and thrust it in his pocket. Silently he drifted outside again just as Richard came hurrying back to join him.
“It’s for you Garth — Sergeant Whittaker. He didn’t want to ask for you without asking me first if you were here. He says he has something important.”
Garth went back through the laboratory and Richard stood studying his retreating figure. Once again the brief relapse into ease of mind was undergoing convulsions. Quickly he looked about the laboratory. Nothing was changed; and as he knew already from careful checking and rechecking there was not a single thing out of place or any clue as to his activities…At least, not as far as he could remember.
When Garth came back there was a curious half-drawn look on his face, as th
ough he had received a shock and had not fully recovered.
“I’ll have to get back right away,” he said. “Something important has turned up…See you again one of these days if you care to drop in at my office. Thanks for showing me round.”
“Shall I drive you back into town?” Richard offered, walking with him to the drive outside.
“No, no, I’ll take the tube. I’ve one or two calls to make anyway.”
“Just what has happened, Garth? I’m as interested in this case as you, remember.”
Garth shrugged. “To be truthful I don’t know the exact details myself: Whittaker wouldn’t give them over the phone. Just like him — always secretive…Well, see you again, Dick.”
He went off down the drive, leaving Richard gazing after him in puzzlement. What else could there be that had turned up? Perhaps Joyce? Richard’s grey eyes hardened; then he shrugged. What if it were? His alibi was perfect…
He turned back towards the garage, and decided it might be as well to put in a few hours work on it until dusk. Joyce was no longer the incentive behind him wanting to finish it, but he had simply got to complete it, as fast as possible, and preferably before Chief Inspector Garth came up again on a “routine” round…
Meanwhile. Garth was striding through the mellow afternoon. His death-mask was completely in place.
“The Goddamned swine!” he murmured once, the muscles of his jaw suddenly taut; then he swung off the road in which Richard’s home stood and turned into a side street. The rest he accomplished mainly by instinct and asking his way. He had noticed the home of the Prescotts when they had driven up from London: Richard had pointed it out to him.
At the house a grey-haired woman of middle age and ample bust opened the door.
“Might I see Miss Prescott?” Garth asked briefly.
“The name, sir?” the housekeeper asked.
“I’m Chief Inspector Garth of Scotland Yard
Except For One Thing Page 15
