by Molly Thynne
On the other hand, it was difficult to see how he could have found time or opportunity for the crime, and there was no evidence that he had ever been in possession of a hypodermic syringe. According to his wife, he had returned home each night at eleven forty-five and remained there until he left for his work on the following morning.
With an impatient gesture Arkwright shoved the paper aside and pressed the bell on his desk.
Macbane’s announcement had completely altered the face of things. Arkwright had interviewed a very chastened Herb Plaskett in his cell that afternoon. In company with two youths older and more experienced than himself, he had commandeered a car on the Wednesday night from outside a private house in the West End, and the three of them had driven out into the country, slept that night in the car, and, by a miracle, escaped arrest until late on Thursday night, when they had been on their way back to London, intending to leave the car in some convenient side-street.
Plaskett was almost tearfully insistent that he had not seen Anthony on the occasion of his visit to his father, and knew nothing of his movements. He was clearly not of the stuff of which hardened criminals are made, but one of his companions had already served a term of imprisonment for larceny, and the other had only escaped arrest by the skin of his teeth at least two occasions. Young Plaskett’s choice of associates was against him and Anthony’s violin had been found in his father’s possession; beyond that it was difficult to see what connection he could have had with the crime.
According to his own account and that of his father he had spent the time between Tuesday night and Wednesday evening in his bed at home and loafing about the streets with various pals, none of whom could be looked upon as reliable witnesses.
On his way home Arkwright called at the Parthenon Playhouse and ascertained that conditions there had been much the same on the Wednesday as on the Thursday afternoon and evening. This, however, did not apply to the morning hours, when the cinema remained closed and untenanted until the arrival, at eleven-thirty, of the cleaners who preceded the general staff. Anthony had last been seen at three-thirty on Wednesday morning, and, according to Macbane, might have been killed any time between then and six-thirty on Thursday night. The chances were that his body had been smuggled into the cinema when the building was deserted either on the Wednesday or Thursday morning.
The room under the stage had been thick with dust, and it was unlikely that the cleaners would have penetrated as far as the cavity in which the body had been found on either of the two mornings in question.
Arkwright made quick work of the cold supper his landlady had put out for him, then got into a heavy frieze overcoat and a tweed cap and faced the blustering wind once more. This time his destination was a small public-house in the neighbourhood of Vauxhall Bridge Road.
The proprietor’s wife was serving behind the bar.
“Sam going out to-night?” enquired Arkwright softly, as he paid for the beer he had ordered.
The woman gave a quick glance round the bar and dropped her voice as she answered:
“’E’ll go out all right, no matter what the weather. Every Tuesday and Friday ’e goes, regular.”
“Leaves you a bit short-handed, doesn’t it?” he suggested pleasantly.
Her fat, good-humoured face lit up with a smile.
“The potman’s ’andy if there should be trouble, and most of our customers are regulars. I don’t stand in the way of ’is goin’. What I say is, they’ve all got their ’obbies, men ’ave, and the money might as well go this way as on the ’orses. Want to see ’im?”
“I’d like a word with him before he goes.”
She raised the flap of the counter.
“If you step behind you’ll find ’im. You know your way.”
A few minutes later Arkwright was sitting in a musty little parlour, deep in conversation with a man nearly as big as himself, whose huge paunch and thickened features suggested that he had been a mighty man with his hands in the days before his muscle turned to fat.
Arkwright had run across Sam Philbegge during the General Strike, when he had come to the assistance of a constable who had lost his footing and was in danger of being kicked to death, but he had known him for a long time before he realized that he was something more than an ex-pugilist who had turned publican, and he had never yet succeeded in discovering what had first led the man in the direction of his peculiar hobby, as his wife called it. Indeed, he had once gone so far as to ask her whether her husband was religious.
“’Im?” she exclaimed, staring at him. “Why, ’e ’ates religion!”
Upon which Arkwright had given it up as a bad job.
But whatever his motive, Philbegge was doing good work in his own queer way. It was his custom, half an hour before closing time, to go down to the Embankment and get into conversation with the homeless derelicts who, huddled together on the benches, tried to get in a few hours’ sleep before they were moved on by the police. How much money he took with him on these occasions Arkwright was never able to find out, but he knew that he never returned until long after it was exhausted, and he suspected that financial reasons alone had obliged him to limit his expeditions to two a week. He was almost morbidly self-conscious on the subject of his charities, and it was only by contriving to meet him one night on his self-imposed beat that Arkwright had managed to get a chance to see him at work. Since then Philbegge had realized that he could rely on his discretion, and had more than once come to him for advice when dealing with cases it was beyond his power to help.
“Tuesday,” he ruminated, scratching his head reflectively with a hand like a bit of raw beef. “I was out on Tuesday, but I must have missed the old gentleman. Still, there’s a chance. Leave me to do the talkin’. I know ’oo to ask and ’ow to do the askin’.”
Accordingly, as they made their halting way along the windswept Embankment, Arkwright stood aside and left him to his work. They had almost reached Waterloo Bridge before Philbegge, who had seated himself on a bench beside an ageless and almost sexless bundle of rags, beckoned to Arkwright.
“This old lady ’ere thinks she may ’ave seen the party you’re after,” he said, edging his way further up the bench to give Arkwright room.
The inspector squeezed himself in between them, and the bundle, gasping and muttering, inclined itself in his direction.
“What’s to-day?” it queried, in a voice as thin and rasping as a bit of rusty wire.
“Friday,” answered Arkwright.
The voice mumbled inaudibly for a moment, then:
“That’s right. It was Tuesday night, then, I see ’im. Sittin’ ’ere, ’e was. I marked ’im ’cos it’s my pitch, this is. Come ’ere regular, I do. Old feller, ’e was, with a big black ’at. Give me a tanner and then moved on acrost the bridge. I didn’t ask for it, ’e give it to me,” she finished sharply, as her beady eyes began to take in Arkwright’s soldierly bearing.
“All right, mother, ’e’s a friend o’ mine,” put in Philbegge quickly.
“Well, ’e ain’t got nothin’ on me, no matter ’oo or what ’e is,” she mumbled. “I wasn’t beggin’, I wasn’t.”
“What time was this, do you remember?” asked Arkwright.
“I dunno. What’s time to me? Big Ben struck, I think, as I come along. Or that might ’a bin’ another night. Anyhow, it was after midnight.”
“He went across the bridge, you say?”
“That’s right. Said ‘Good night’, ’e did, and went across the bridge there.”
Her head drooped forward, and the two men, seeing there was no more to be got out of her, rose and left.
“Walked ’er twenty mile a day, she ’as,” said Philbegge gruffly. “‘Ad ’er own barrer, too, in ’er time. Likes ’er little drop, that’s the trouble. Better try over the other side, I’m thinkin’.”
He led the way across the bridge and past the hospital.
“We shan’t find many of your friends down here,” objected Arkwright.
/> “Coffee-stalls,” grunted Philbegge. “Two of ’em. It’s surprisin’ what a lot those chaps sees.”
The first had seen nothing, and they had passed Waterloo Station before they came on the second. At the sight of Philbegge the proprietor poured out a cup of steaming coffee and pushed it over to him.
“Free, gratis and fer nothin’,” he exclaimed cheerfully, “and plenty more where this come from.”
Arkwright ordered one for himself and drank it gratefully while Philbegge put his question.
“Old chap with a slouch ’at? I seen ’im,” answered the man. “Let me see, to-day’s Friday. Last night it rained. It wasn’t rainin’ the night I see ’im. Tuesday it’d be, or, rather, Wednesday mornin’. ’E come along and ’ad a coffee and a ’am roll. Chatty old feller, ’e was. Told me ’e played in one of them cinema orchestras. Time? Just after six, I should say it was. I’d got me eye on the clock, seein’ as I close down at six-thirty.”
“Think you’d know him again if you saw him?”
“If ’e’d got the same clothes on, I should, but I didn’t take no special note of ’im, and the ’at cast a shadder over ’is face. I get all sorts ’ere, and ’e looked like what ’e said ’e was. What’s ’e bin up to?”
“A party wants to trace ’im, that’s all,” said Philbegge. “Notice which way ’e went?”
The man shook his head.
“Might ’ave gone either way,” he said cheerfully. “’E just put down ’is money and ’ooked it.”
Arkwright leaned forward.
“Can you remember if he was smoking?” he said.
“Don’t think so, and I’ll tell you for why. ’E was one of them snuff-takers. Offers the box to me, ’e did, but I wasn’t ’avin’ any. If my old dad’d been ’ere, ’e’d ’ave been on to it. A terror for snuff, ’e is, as I told the old chap.”
“What kind of box was it?”
“Silver, with a kind of pattern on it. I remember thinkin’ ’e’d get it pinched if ’e wasn’t careful.”
“Nothing more you can remember about him?”
“Not a thing. ’E acted quite natural, and there didn’t seem anythin’ wrong with ’im.”
Arkwright thanked him and put down the money for both drinks.
“I don’t take no money from Mr. Philbegge and ’e knows it,” said the proprietor, pushing half of it back to him. “You’re welcome. Sorry I couldn’t tell you more.”
Arkwright did not part from Philbegge till the small hours of the morning, but their luck had turned and they got no clue as to why it had taken Anthony over two hours and a half to get from the Embankment to Waterloo, or what had happened to him after his visit to the coffee-stall.
“If you ask me,” said Philbegge grimly, “there’s not much that couldn’t ’appen to an old gentleman wanderin’ round by ’imself on this side of the river. I’ll pass the word round and let you know if I get anythin’. They’ll talk to me when they wouldn’t say a word to you. There’s only one ’ope that I can see, though.”
“What’s that?”
“That there snuff-box. If it wasn’t on ’im when ’e was found somebody’s got it. If anybody pinched it off ’im when ’e was alive ther’ll try to pass it on sooner or later. That’s where you get on to ’em.”
“Nice easy job you think mine is, don’t you?” grinned Arkwright, as he turned wearily towards home.
CHAPTER VII
NEXT morning, in accordance with his promise, Constantine called on Betty at Steynes House. He found her out, but the Duchess, very much herself, received him with enthusiasm.
“Marlowe has taken the child into the country in his car,” she said. “It seems she’s got to attend the inquest this afternoon and she’s dreading it, of course. I told him to take her right away into the open air and not bring her back till it’s time to start for the Coroner’s Court. I told him I expected him to do his best to save her from this.”
“It’s hardly his fault,” explained Constantine. “I was afraid she would have to go unless she were too ill to attend. They’ll make it as easy as possible for her.”
“Well, I only hope she won’t run into Civita. She’s gone through enough, poor little thing, as it is, and the sight of him will only upset her.”
Constantine looked worried.
“I wish you could persuade her not to take that business so seriously,” he said. “It’s of very minor importance, in any case. I’m afraid there’s no doubt that her grandfather did enter into this transaction with Civita, you know.”
“Betty says he didn’t, and that’s enough for me,” announced the Duchess, setting her lips firmly.
“But what object could he have in lying?”
“I don’t know, but it stands to reason that Betty knew her own grandfather better than he did, even if they were friends years ago in Paris. Besides, I would take her word against his any day.”
“I always thought you liked Civita,” ventured Constantine with a boldness born of curiosity.
The Duchess, even when self-deluded, was invariably honest.
“I did,” she admitted reluctantly, “until he deliberately began catering for the riff-raff of London society, people whose names I have had to take off my own lists. In the beginning he came to me for advice more than once, and I was glad to give it. Now the place has completely lost caste in my eyes.”
“He can hardly refuse to serve people. After all, that’s the penalty of keeping a restaurant,” expostulated Constantine.
The Duchess snorted.
“My dear Doctor Constantine, you know London as well as I do. It’s the easiest thing in the world to exclude the wrong kind of people. They may take up a new place for a short time, but if they don’t find their own kind there they’ll soon fall away. You must have noticed a change in the tone of the place since you came back.”
“I’ve only dined there once,” began Constantine.
“Well, did you see one single person you knew?”
Constantine had seen several, but was aware that they were not of a type that would meet with the approval of the Duchess.
“They did not seem to me to differ from the usual restaurant crowd,” he hedged judiciously.
“But that’s exactly what I mean! The Trastevere used to be exclusive, in the best sense of the word. Look at it now! When Claudine Malmsey first took to going there I was annoyed, because it’s difficult to cold-shoulder your own relations, but it didn’t worry me because I knew that she’d soon tire of bringing her own insufferable entourage with her. Claudine likes to get her atmosphere ready-made, so to speak,” she conclude, with a shrewdness that surprised Constantine.
“There came a time, I suppose, when they brought themselves,” said Constantine. “After all, it was only to be expected.”
“Civita’s one of the cleverest men in London. Oh, I’m prepared to grant him that, annoyed though I am with him! If he’d wanted to he could have discouraged them so tactfully that they wouldn’t have realized what was happening. But he didn’t want to.”
“You can’t expect him to ignore any paying proposition,” persisted Constantine.
“My good man, they don’t pay!” snapped the Duchess. “We do. We may be taxed to the verge of extinction, and I’m ready to admit that our wine bills bear no comparison with theirs, but what we do order we pay for. Claudine and her crowd, unless they’re allowed credit, go elsewhere. I should like to see her account with Civita!”
“Does that set really frequent the Trastevere?” asked Constantine thoughtfully.
“They’ve made it their headquarters. Go there any night after eleven and you’ll see them all. The Clisboroughs, Carol Puyne, and those deplorable half-wits who, I understand, now call themselves ‘The Gang’, poor Elizabeth Gravesend’s two girls, and a collection of young men who would never have found their way into any decent house in my day. Bertie can give you a list. He says they amuse him.”
Constantine raised his eyebrows.
“Caro
l Puyne and Lady Malmsey! Civita’s talking his chances!”
“And remember he’s got a wine list and doesn’t put fancy prices on his drinks, as I understand they do at these night clubs. The man’s lost his head.”
“And your custom, which is worse!” said Constantine, administering a little oil to the troubled waters.
The Duchess relaxed slightly.
“We may be dull, but we’re safe,” she conceded. “Is it true that they’re going to bring in a verdict of murder this afternoon?”
Constantine shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m not a prophet,” he said, “but there seems no doubt that Anthony died of an overdose of morphia. Unless he was a drug addict it seems unlikely that it was self-administered.”
“And he was last seen at the Trastevere,” added the Duchess with a world of meaning in her voice. “Does that convey nothing to you after what I’ve told you?”
He laughed in spite of himself.
“My dear Duchess,” he said, “isn’t that a little far-fetched?”
“Claudine’s done some astounding things in her time,” retorted the Duchess darkly. “It’s no good pretending you don’t know what I mean.”
Constantine did know, and he was very thoughtful as he made his way down the narrow street that led past the garden of Steynes House to the Trastevere. Fantastic as the Duchess’s insinuations had been, he could not dismiss them entirely from his mind. Lady Malmsey had drugged herself into two nursing homes already, and, only six months before, had been concerned in a so-called “ragging” case, in which two of the members of the party had narrowly escaped death. There was a faint possibility that Anthony, after his return to the Trastevere, had somehow fallen in with a party of young degenerates whose perverted sense of humour had been stirred by the sight of the old man, so obviously out of touch with his environment. Constantine knew that there was more than one house in London to which he might have been taken, and it was certainly within the bounds of possibility that, carried away by the exquisite farce of drugging a helpless old man, they had gone further than they intended and had then attempted to conceal the body.
