A Blunt Instrument (18 page)

"Did he use that door?"

"Yes, he did. Saved trouble, see?"

"Who else is in the house?"

"Me and my 'usband, and my gal, Gladys, and the first-floor front."

"Who is that?"

"A very nice lady. Stage, but she's resting."

"Who is on the ground-floor?"

"No one. He's away. His name's Barnes. He travels in soap."

"How long has Carpenter lodged here?"

"Six months. He was a nice young fellow. Smart, too."

"Were you friendly with him? Did he tell you anything about himself?"

"No. Ask no questions and you'll be told no lies, is what I say. As long as he paid his rent, nothing else didn't matter to me. I guessed he'd had his bit of trouble, but I'm not one for poking my nose into what don't concern me. Live and let five's my motto."

"All right, that's all for the present." Hannasyde left her, and went along the passage to the door that gave on to the area. The bolts were drawn back, and the chain hung loose beside the wall.

A few minutes later the police ambulance drew up outside the house. The divisional surgeon, the photographer, and the finger-print expert were soon busy in the basement room, and a fresh-faced young sergeant was dispatched to assist Hemingway in his search for possible witnesses.

Sergeant Hemingway returned just after Carpenter's body had been removed, and joined Hannasyde in the basement room, where he was engaged, with the help of an inspector, in searching through the dead man's possessions.

"Well?" Hannasyde said.

"Yes, I got something," the Sergeant answered. "The coffee-merchant only arrived at his pitch at 9.30, since when, Chief, the only person he's seen come down the road, setting aside you, me and the Constable on his beat, was a medium-sized man in evening dress, who walked quickly down the other side of the street, making for the taxi-rank in Glassmere Road. And what do you make of that?"

"Any description?"

"No. He didn't notice him particularly. Says it was too dark to see his face. But what he does say, Super, is that he wasn't wearing an overcoat, and he wasn't carrying anything in his hands. Talk about history repeating itself! I don't need to ask if you've found the weapon here. I wouldn't believe you if you said you had."

"I haven't. Did you find anyone to corroborate the coffee-stall owner's evidence?"

"If you can call it corroboration," said the Sergeant with a sniff. "There's a couple propping the wall up at the other end of the street. You know the style: kissing and canoodling for the past hour. I wouldn't set much store by what they say, but for what it's worth the girl seems to think she saw a gentleman in evening dress and an opera hat pass by about half-an-hour ago. Not what you'd call a lot of traffic on this road. I've put Lyne on to the houses opposite, on the chance someone may have been looking out of a window."

"Did the couple at the other end of the street notice whether the man in evening dress was carrying a stick?"

"Not they. First thing they said was they hadn't noticed anyone at all. I had to press them a bit before they came out of the ether, so to speak. Then the girl remembered seeing a man with a white shirt-front on the other side of the road, and the boy-friend says after thinking hard, yes, he believes he did see someone, only he didn't look at him particularly, and whether it was before or after the Constable passed them, he wouldn't like to say. Actually, it was just before, if the coffee-merchant is to be believed, which I think he is. What's more, they were going opposite ways, and there's an outside chance they may have passed each other. Shall I get hold of the chap who has this beat?"

"Yes, as soon as possible. Obviously he saw nothing suspicious, but if he did meet the man in evening dress he may be able to describe him."

"Not much doubt who he was, if you ask me," said the Sergeant. "It's North all right. But what he does with his weapon has me fairly beat. Sleight-of-hand isn't in it with that chap. You got any ideas, Chief?"

"No. Nor have I any idea why, if it was he, he had to kill Carpenter."

The Sergeant stared at him. "Well, but it's plain enough, isn't it, Chief? Carpenter must have seen the murder of the late Ernest. My own hunch is that he was trying his hand at blackmailing North for a change."

"Look here, Hemingway, if Carpenter was shown off the premises at 9.58 by Fletcher, how can he have seen the murder?"

"Perhaps he wasn't shown off the premises," said the Sergeant slowly. "Perhaps Mrs. North made that up." He paused, and scratched his chin. "Yes, I see what you mean. Getting what you might call involved, isn't it? It looks to me as though Charlie Carpenter knew a sight more about this business than we gave him credit for."

Chapter Eleven

The amorous couple, interrogated at the police station by Hannasyde, were eager to be of assistance, but as their evidence was vague, and often contradictory, it was not felt that either could be considered a valuable witness. The girl, who was an under-housemaid enjoying her evening out, no sooner discovered that the fact of her having seen a man in evening dress was considered important by the police than she at once began to imagine that she had noticed more than she had at first admitted.

"I thought he looked queer," she informed Hannasyde. "Oo, I thought, you do look queer! You know: funny."

"In what way funny?" asked Hannasyde.

"Oh, I don't know! I mean, I can't say exactly, but there was something about him, the way he was walking - awfully fast, you know. He looked like a gangster to me."

At this point her swain intervened. "Go on!" he said. "You never!"

"Oh, I did, Syd, honest, I did!"

"You never said nothing to me about it."

"No, but I got a feeling," said Miss Jenkins mysteriously.

"You and your feelings!"

"Tell me this," interposed Hannasyde. "Was the man dark or fair?"

But Miss Jenkins refused to commit herself on this point. Pressed, she said that it was too dark to see. Mr. Sydney Potter said indulgently: "You never sor a thing. It was this way, sir: me and my young lady were having what you might call a chat. We didn't notice no one particularly. What I mean is, not to be sure of them."

"Did you see the man in evening dress?"

Mr. Potter said cautiously: "Not to remember, I didn't. There was two or three people passed, but I didn't take no notice. It's like this: I do seem to think there was a toff walking down the other side of the road, but I wouldn't like to swear to it."

"Yes, and he must have met the policeman, what's more," put in Miss Jenkins. "It was just a minute after he went by that I saw the policeman. Fancy if he done it under the policeman's nose, as you might say. Oo, some people haven't half got a nerve! I sort of know it was a gangster."

"You're barmy! The policeman came by ages before," said Mr. Potter fondly. "Go on, put a sock in it! You don't remember nothing."

This opinion was shared by Sergeant Hemingway, who said disgustedly as soon as the couple had departed: "Nice pair of witnesses, I don't think! If they were carrying on the whole evening like they were when I found them, it's a wonder to me they saw anyone. Proper necking-party. I'm bothered if I know how people keep it up for the hours they do. The girl wants to see her picture in the papers, I've met her sort before. Potter's not much better, either. In fact, they're neither of them any good."

"Except that the girl did see a man in evening dress, which corroborates the coffee-stall proprietor's story. We'll see what the policeman has to say. If the girl was speaking the truth about his having passed just after she saw the man in evening dress, we may get somewhere."

But when Constable Mather, a freckle-faced and serious young man, came in, he said regretfully that when he passed up Barnsley Street he had seen nothing of any man in evening dress.

"There you are!" said Hemingway, exasperated. "What did I tell you? Just making up a good tale, that's all the silly little fool was doing."

Hannasyde addressed the young policeman. "When you passed, did you happen to notice whether the light was on in the basement of No. 43?"

"That's Mrs. Prim's," said Mather. "If you'll excuse me, I'll have to think a minute, sir."

The Sergeant regarded him with bird-like curiosity, and said: "Either you know or you don't."

The grave grey eyes came to rest on his face. "Not till I've walked up the road, sir. I'm doing that now - if you wouldn't mind waiting a minute. I find I can think back if I do that."

"Carry on," said Hannasyde, quelling the sceptical Sergeant with a frown.

There was a pause, during with PC Mather apparently projected his spirit back to Barnsley Street. At last he said with decision: "Yes, sir, it was. No. 39 - that's Mrs. Dugdale's - had a window open, but she's got bars up, so it didn't matter. Then the next house, which is No. 41, was all dark, and after that there was one with the basement light on. That was No. 43."

"I see," Hannasyde said. "You feel sure of that?"

"Yes, sir."

"You didn't hear any sounds coming from that basement room, or notice anything wrong?"

"No, sir. The blind was drawn down, and I didn't hear anything."

"If the light was on, the murderer may have been there," said the Sergeant. "In fact, it looks to me as though he was there, having done in Carpenter, waiting till you'd passed to make his escape."

The Constable looked distressed. "Yes, sir. I'm sure I'm very sorry."

"Not your fault," said Hannasyde, and dismissed him.

"Nice case, isn't it?" said the Sergeant. "Now we only want to find that the taxi-driver didn't happen to notice what his face looked like, and we'll be sitting pretty."

He was not destined to be disappointed. Some time later, when he and Hannasyde were back at Scotland Yard, a message was received to the effect that one Henry Smith, taxi-driver, while waiting in the rank in Glassmere Road, had been engaged by a gentleman in evening dress, and directed to drive to the Piccadilly Hotel. Whether his fare had actually entered the hotel, he was unable to say. He had not inspected the gentleman closely, but retained an impression of a man of medium height and build. He did not recall the man's face particularly; he was just an ordinary, nice-looking chap.

"Well, at any rate it can't have been Budd," remarked the Sergeant. "No one in their senses would call him nice-looking. We've drawn a blank on the finger-prints, Chief. Whoever did this job wore gloves."

"And no trace of the weapon," Hannasyde said, frowning. "A heavy, blunt instrument, wielded with considerable strength. In fact, exactly the same instrument that was used to kill Fletcher."

"It's nice to think we didn't overlook it at Greystones, at all events," said the Sergeant cheerfully. "The murderer must have walked off with it under his hat. Have you got anything out of Carpenter's papers?"

"Nothing that looks like being of much assistance. There's this."

The Sergeant took a limp, folded letter from him, and spread it open. A glance at the signature made him exclaim: "Angela! Well, well, well!"

The letter, which was undated, was not a long one. Written in a round, unformed hand, it began abruptly:

Charlie -By the time you get this I won't be at our old address anymore. I don't think you really care, but I wouldn't want to do it without telling you, because in spite of everything, and the wrong you have fallen into, dear Charlie, and the evil companions, and everything I don't ever forget the old times. But I know now it wasn't the real thing, because I have found the real thing, and I see everything differently. I shan't tell you his name, because I know you, Charlie, you are without truth and would make trouble if you could. Don't think it is because of the disgrace you have got into that I am leaving you, because I know now that love is as strong as death, and if it had been the real thing I would have stuck to you, because many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. They used to teach us that that bit and all the rest was about the Church, but I know better now."

The Sergeant read this missive, remarking as he gave it back to Hannasyde: "She had got it bad, hadn't she? Fancy anyone feeling that way about the late Ernest! Looks as though she must have written it when Charlie was in jug. What you might call corroborative evidence only. She probably did do herself in for love of the late Ernest, and Charlie was the sort of dirty little squirt who'd put the black on anyone if he saw his way to it. And where are we now? Do you take it that Carpenter saw the late Ernest murdered?"

"If he did, it raises one or two questions," replied Hannasyde. "Did the murderer not only see Carpenter, but also recognise him? Or did Carpenter recognise the murderer, and attempt to blackmail him?"

"Look here, Chief, are we casting North for the part, or are we assuming the murderer is an entirely new and unsuspected character, whom we haven't even laid eyes on?"

"How do I know? I admit, nearly everything points to North. Not quite, though. In favour of that theory, we have North's unexpected return to England, his unexplained movements on the night of the murder, Mrs. North's peculiar behaviour, and the presence of a man in Barnsley Street tonight who corresponds vaguely with his description. Against it, I think we ought to set North's character first. I have his sister-in-law's word for it that he's no fool, and I believe it. But what could be more blundering and foolish than to murder a second man in precisely the same way as he murdered the first?"

"I don't know so much," interrupted the Sergeant. "Come to think of it, it's worrying us a bit, isn't it? If he's the smart Alec you say he is, it might strike him as a pretty fruity idea to do in his victims as clumsily as he could. Moreover, it's not as dumb as it looks. He doesn't leave his finger-prints behind him, and he's got some trick of concealing his weapon which a conjurer couldn't better."

"Yes, I've thought of that," admitted Hannasyde. "But there are other points. Where and when did a man in his position come into contact with Carpenter?"

"At Greystones, on the night of the late Ernest's murder," replied the Sergeant promptly. "Look, Super! Supposing you forget Mrs. North's second instalment for the moment. Take it that Carpenter was hiding in the garden all the time she was with the late Ernest -'

"What the devil would he be hiding for, if he had come to blackmail Fletcher?"

The Sergeant thought for a moment. "How about his having hidden for exactly the same reason Mrs. North did? He may have been walking up the path when he heard her open the gate behind him -'

"Impossible. If that were so, he must have met Budd, and he didn't."

"All right," said the Sergeant, in long-suffering accents. "We'll take it he was there all the time. Came in while Budd was with the late Ernest. Instead of hopping out of his hiding-place the instant Budd left, he waited a moment to be sure the coast was clear. Then Mrs. North came into the garden, and he continued to lie low. When she left the late Ernest, North had just arrived. She hid, just as she told us, recognised her husband, and bunked - No, she didn't, though! The postman saw her leaving by the front entrance just after 10.00! Wait a bit! Yes, I've got it. North killed the late Ernest somewhere between 9.45 and 10.00, and left by way of the garden-gate, watched by Mrs. North, and our friend Charlie. Not knowing of Charlie's presence, Mrs. North slipped into the study, just to see what kind of fun and games had been going on, found the late Ernest, got into a panic, and bunked through the house. Carpenter, meanwhile, made his exit by way of the garden-gate - time 10.02 - was seen by Ichabod, and bolted in the same direction that North had taken. He came in sight of North, followed him -'

"Followed him where?"

"Back to town, I suppose. He must have tracked him to his flat to have found out who he was. After that he tried his blackmailing game on North, and North naturally had to eliminate him. How do you like that?"