He closed his eyes and Bobby said to his companion:
‘You stay here with him, will you? He may want to say something. I’ll ring up a doctor, and the Yard, too, to let them know. Is there a phone?’
‘In the hall,’ Jones answered, ‘near the door.’
Bobby went down and rang up the local police whom he asked to come along at once and to bring a doctor with them, and next his own superiors. To Scotland Yard he suggested that Miss Laing ought to be informed, as apparently the dying man wished for her presence, and he received permission to go to her at once.
It was some little distance to ‘The Cedars’, but he was lucky in finding a belated cab, and when he got to the house, lights there showed that all the inmates were not yet in bed. When he knocked it was Brenda herself who came to the door.
‘Ah, you,’ she said, recognizing him at once, ‘what has happened?’ And it seemed she had some idea, for she added immediately: ‘Mark... Mr Lester... is it?’
‘He is hurt, there has been an accident,’ Bobby answered gravely. ‘I think he wants to see you, he asked for you. Will you come at once? I have a taxi.’
She came down the steps immediately, without waiting to put on either hat or coat.
‘Won’t you get a wrap or something?’ Bobby asked.
She shook her head and went on to the waiting taxi.
‘We were to be married to-morrow,’ she said, and then: ‘Was it an accident?’
He did not answer. Somehow he felt it was unnecessary to reply; he had a very clear idea that what Mark had done was no surprise to her, that in some way she had anticipated his action. He signed to the driver to start and took his seat by her side. He said to her:
‘Can you tell us why he did it?’
In her turn she made no answer and he asked again:
‘Was it because he was afraid he would be arrested?’
‘No,’ she answered.
‘Was it because there was something he knew?’
‘It might be,’ she answered then, ‘I think it might be that.’
‘Will you tell us what you think he might have known?’ he asked again.
She turned her sombre, heavy eyes upon him, and did not speak. But she made a slight, negative gesture, and he knew that until she was ready, and that was not yet, she would say no word.
But he tried once more.
‘If you keep anything from us, you help the murderer to escape,’ he reminded her.
‘No murderer escapes,’ she answered moodily. ‘What is done is done, and there’s no escape.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Bobby said. ‘Our duty is to see criminals are caught.’
With another faint gesture she seemed to put that aside as unimportant. She said presently:
‘Shall we be in time? We shall be too late, I think.’
Bobby put his head out of the window and asked the driver to go faster if he could. Brenda said nothing more. Though Bobby spoke to her once or twice, she did not seem even to hear. But when at last the taxi drew up, she said, to herself as it seemed:
‘Too late, it’s too late now.’
She was right, for Mark Lester had died only a few minutes after Bobby left the house.
CHAPTER 24
MR BELFORT SPEAKS
There was so much to be done, so many of those details to be attended to that such tragedies involve: so far as Bobby himself was concerned he had to explain at such length how he happened to be on the spot after having been sent off duty – for in official eyes, zeal bears always a suspicious air – that it was far on in the small hours before he found himself free.
He had, indeed, not much leisure for anything more than a bath, a change of clothing, and a bare two hours’ sleep, before it was time to appear again at headquarters, where he had to repeat to Mitchell the full story of his experiences.
‘I’ve never noticed,’ observed Mitchell reflectively, when Bobby had finished his story and he himself had finished asking questions about it, ‘I’ve never noticed that your brains are any better than most, but you do seem somehow to have a way of being on the spot when things happen – I suppose it’s luck.’
‘I suppose so, sir,’ agreed Bobby, considering the point.
‘There’s two kinds of luck if you’ve noticed,’ Mitchell observed still more thoughtfully. ‘One is the kind of luck you take advantage of. The other is the kind you don’t. We’ve all our share of luck, but some get one kind and some the other, and now I suppose I shall have to spend most of to-day, with forty other things needing attention, interviewing Miss Laing and this Harrison fellow. Do you think I shall get anything out of them?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I’m rather inclined to agree with you,’ admitted Mitchell. ‘As for Miss Laing, her silence is a living thing. But this Harrison seems quite a commonplace little man, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Bobby, ‘but he hated Sir Christopher so much, I think his hate will keep him from talking.’
‘I’ve turned two or three of our best men on to finding out all they can about him,’ Mitchell commented. ‘A lot of our people – the Assistant Commissioner, too – think what happened last night shows Mark Lester was guilty. Some of the papers are hinting the same thing, I see. The Assistant Commissioner thinks all we have to do now is to wind up the investigation.’
‘If I may say so, sir,’ Bobby answered, ‘it looks to me as if it had hardly begun yet – as if so far we hadn’t done much more than look on, watching what’s happening.’
‘You mean you think there’s more that’s to happen yet?’
‘Well, sir, we’ve no idea yet what’s behind it all, have we? And I don’t think Mark Lester’s death means much more than that one of the actors has left the stage – the others have still to play out their parts.’
‘Maybe,’ agreed Mitchell, ‘it may be that – and it’s a fact there’s a lot about the theatre in all this business. The whole affair is rather like watching a play – only you’ve missed the beginning, so you can’t quite tell what it’s all about or how it’s likely to end. That is, if this affair last night isn’t the end already.’
‘If I may say so, sir,’ Bobby exclaimed earnestly, ‘I’m sure it isn’t, I’m sure there’s more to come. We’ve had three warnings: that Miss Laing’s wedding wouldn’t happen, that Mrs Carsley – Miss Jennie that was – is in danger, and that trouble between Peter Carsley and Marsden may come to a head any moment. The first warning’s proved true. So may the others.’
‘Can you suggest any line of investigation?’
‘Only the one you’re following up yourself, sir,’ answered Bobby.
‘What the dickens do you mean by that?’ snapped Mitchell.
‘The connexion with the Regency Theatre, sir,’ answered Bobby. ‘I take it, sir, you and the Assistant Commissioner didn’t go there simply to see a Shakespearian production that happens to have caught on?’
‘Does this mean,’ demanded Mitchell formidably, ‘that you’ve had the infernal cheek and impudence to trail your Superintendent?’
‘Oh, no, sir,’ protested Bobby, quite shocked at such an idea.
‘Then how in thunder do you know where I spend my evenings and in whose company, heh?’
‘They recognized you at the theatre, sir,’ explained Bobby, ‘and just happened to mention it.’
‘Happened to mention it,’ grumbled Mitchell, ‘the way you happen to be on the spot when things happen, I suppose. Well, young man, I do think there’s some connexion – the question is, what? Those tickets weren’t sent to Sir Christopher merely for fun. It’s not a pure coincidence that Harrison’s brother-in-law is in charge of the box office where they were bought. There is a sort of vague idea running in my mind; but the Assistant Commissioner thinks it’s rot, and I can’t get an atom of confirmation in fact, so I’m mentioning it to no one else. For one thing I don’t want to put ideas into other people’s heads that may have nothing in them – the ideas I mean, of course. Though if the same
notion occurred to anyone else–’
He paused as if half hoping, half-expecting, a reply. But Bobby could do no more than look blank, and once again Mitchell had a faint air of disappointment as he continued:
‘I expect Harrison could tell us if he chose, but I expect you’re right and he won’t talk – hate’s a silent thing, not like love; love’s on the chattering side, every lover likes to tell you all about it but hate keeps quiet.’
‘There’s one thing I should like to suggest, if I may,’ Bobby went on. ‘You remember, sir, Harrison said he saw Mr Belfort near “The Cedars” on the night of the murder. I thought it might be as well if I saw if I could identify him with the oldish man I remember noticing – probably the same who spoke to Sergeant Doran and who seems to have left a footprint in the garden near the billiard-room window.’
‘And I suppose,’ observed Mitchell, ‘if I assign you another job, you’ll go trotting off on your own as soon as you’re off duty, to see for yourself?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Bobby.
‘Sometimes,’ complained Mitchell bitterly, ‘I feel like going on my knees and asking God who’s running this investigation – whether it’s Superintendent Mitchell or Constable Owen with three years and two months’ service behind him. Perhaps you know?’
‘Well, sir,’ answered Bobby, ‘I think myself it’s what I said before – we are not so much running the investigation as looking on while it runs itself.’
‘Most investigations do,’ retorted Mitchell. ‘You’ll know that when you’ve a bit more experience. Thank heaven, I shall be drawing my pension before then. You can get off now and see if you can find this Belfort man and if you can identify him. Don’t press him at all but if he wants to talk, don’t stop him. I don’t know about sending Doran with you. I think on the whole I won’t. If you find Belfort, Doran had better see him separately. The identification will be more certain that way. I suppose you remember him well enough to be sure of knowing him again?’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Bobby confidently, and retired.
He had no great difficulty in obtaining Mr Belfort’s address. He lived at Eastbourne, and Bobby took the next train there, wished duty led him to the sea front and a bathe instead of to the hinterland of the town where the villas pullulate, and presently arrived at the particular habitation in red brick that sheltered Mr Belfort.
The maid, once persuaded that he had no desire to sell her a vacuum cleaner, showed him into the breakfast-room where Mr Belfort, surrounded by abstruse works of reference, was busy trying to solve a crossword puzzle of the most complicated kind. Bobby knew him again at once, and was almost sure from Mr Belfort’s manner that he had been recognized in his turn. So he went direct to the point.
‘Mr Belfort, I think?’ he said. ‘I believe you are the gentleman I saw near Sir Christopher Clarke’s house the evening he was murdered?’
‘Were you the policeman on duty there?’ Mr Belfort asked. ‘I’ve been half expecting some of you would come along. But there’s nothing I can tell you.’
‘You can tell us why you didn’t communicate with us,’ Bobby pointed out. ‘Didn’t you see the notice in the papers asking you to come forward?’
‘No,’ answered Belfort stoutly, though Bobby did not tor even one moment believe him. ‘I supposed if you wanted me, you would let me know. I saw nothing in the papers and the whole thing had nothing to do with me.’
‘You told one of our men, a sergeant you met, that it was a case of suicide?’ Bobby reminded him.
‘I thought it was, I took it for granted it was,’ Belfort answered. ‘I knew very well there was something wrong with the Trust fund. It’s true it was put straight again, so there’s been no need to take any action, as the fund is intact. But my lawyers agree with me that it is certain it’s been tampered with. I had been given a hint of what was going on, and I thought it was certain Clarke had committed suicide rather than face me and confess.’
‘Sir Christopher was a wealthy man,’ Bobby said. ‘He left nearly a quarter of a million, I believe. It’s impossible to suppose he could have done anything like that.’
‘Why?’ snapped Belfort. ‘Anyhow, if he didn’t, someone did – possibly without his knowledge. But the fund has been put straight again, quite all right, so there’s nothing more to be said. All the same something dishonest has been going on and I had the evidence in my pocket to show. When I knew he had been shot, I thought it was certain that was why – that he hadn’t dared face exposure. I could hardly believe it when my lawyers told me they had examined the fund and found it intact.’
‘A footmark was found in a flower bed near the billiard- room window,’ Bobby said. ‘It is believed to be yours. What were you doing there?’
‘Sir Christopher had asked me to dine with him,’ Mr Belfort answered. ‘I came by tube and got there much too early. I walked round to have a look at the house first. I expect I was a little nervous and excited. The loss of the money would be serious enough and I anticipated a highly unpleasant interview with Sir Christopher when I made it plain I knew something of what had been going on. I saw a man walking up the drive to the house, and I saw him leave the drive, and walk across the lawn, and go into the house by an open french window. I thought perhaps it was Sir Christopher himself, and I thought, if so, I could have my talk with him at once. I followed up the drive, and then I saw, through the open window, the man inside the billiard- room stooping over something on the floor. I could see his face distinctly, and I saw it wasn’t Sir Christopher, and I saw, too, something serious had happened. I ran across, and looked in the room, and I saw Sir Christopher on the ground with a pistol lying near-by. I felt sure at once he had committed suicide to avoid having to face confessing he had embezzled the Trust fund. That made it important certain steps should be taken at once, certain people informed. I went away to do that. The suicide itself was nothing to do with me, but what had to be seen to at once was important. On the way I met a policeman, so I told him, and sent him to the house. It seems now it was a murder but I had no idea of that; that never occurred to me at the time.’
‘When you knew it was murder, why didn’t you come forward?’ Bobby asked.
‘It wasn’t anything to do with me,’ Mr Belfort repeated, ‘and I knew if I did the papers would rake up the old scandal again. The Belfort Trust was founded as a result of a very painful family scandal that all the papers were full of thirty years ago. I knew the penny press’ – Mr Belfort, who paid twopence for his own daily paper, pronounced ‘penny press’ with that scorn with which once people used to say the ‘ha’penny press’ – would rake it all up again. I wished very much to avoid that happening. I knew the pain any raking up of the old scandal would cause to a lady, a very old lady now, who is a very dear friend of mine.’
Bobby guessed, too, that Mr Belfort had not been uninfluenced by a certain fear that his presence on the spot, if it were known, might lead to his coming under suspicion himself. Whether Mr Belfort could really be guilty was an idea that indeed suggested itself to Bobby, but for which he did not see much support, though he decided to mention it to his superiors for their consideration. He said:
‘Your silence has helped to make things very difficult for us, Mr Belfort. It’s a serious matter to hold back information from the police in a case of murder.’
‘I’ve held back nothing of any value,’ declared Mr Belfort stoutly; ‘all I thought I knew turns out quite wrong – the Trust fund is intact, Sir Christopher didn’t commit suicide. I should only have misled you if I had said anything, and I had no intention of letting the gutter press get hold of that old scandal, and rake it up again, if I could help it. We had that experience once, we don’t want it again, it would probably have killed the lady I spoke of. It’s true I did think sometimes I ought to tell you of the man I saw climbing the garden wall next door, but he had only been stealing fruit, so he couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder.’
But Bobby was listening intently.
‘A young fellow,’ Mr Belfort answered. ‘I heard someone shouting that a man was after the apples, and then I saw this man jumping over the wall in a great hurry. Apparently someone had thrown something at him, for I noticed his coat was stained and dirty. He ran off for dear life.’
‘Could you describe him?’ Bobby asked, and Mr Belfort replied with a very good and clear description that made it certain the man he had seen was young Peter Carsley.
CHAPTER 25
MARSDEN EXPRESSES SUSPICIONS
This information given him by old Mr Belfort seemed to Bobby of such importance that when presently, after a few more questions had been asked and answered, he left the house, he went to the Eastbourne police station where he got permission to phone directly to Scotland Yard. He was put through to Mitchell, who listened with interest to what he had to say and told him to take the next train back to town to report in greater detail.
When he arrived at headquarters, however, Bobby found that Mitchell had unexpectedly been called away on other business, and so he had to spend the rest of the day dawdling about, yawning, reading the papers, playing a game of a hundred up with the C.I.D. billiards champion and losing half a crown for his temerity. Finally he was dismissed from duty for that day.
The next morning he had another long wait, but just as he was beginning to think that both he and his information had been entirely forgotten, he was sent for by Inspector Gibbons.
‘It’s been decided to put the papers before Treasury Counsel,’ Gibbons told him. ‘Seems to me the case is good enough, though the Treasury lot will pick a hole in it if they can – they don’t want their cases cast iron, they want them cold steel, double lined, armour plated, jewelled in every hole, good enough for the kingdom of heaven, let alone a world like this. But when a murder puts a fortune in a man’s pocket and that man is seen at the time escaping over a garden wall – well, even Treasury Counsel might be able to get a conviction if they chose to put in a bit of work for once in a way themselves, instead of expecting us to do it all.’
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