A Blunt Instrument (24 page)

"She was, but surely - yes, I thought so. Brown put the time he saw the policeman at about 9.40, and stated that as far as he could remember the man in evening dress passed a minute or two later. That seems to tally more or less with the girl's story. Did we ascertain from the Constable what time it was when he entered Barnsley Street?"

"No," admitted the Sergeant. "As he didn't see any man in evening dress, or notice anything wrong at No. 43, I didn't think that it was important."

"I wonder?" Hannasyde was frowning at the opposite wall.

"Got an idea, Chief?" the Sergeant asked, his interest reviving.

Hannasyde glanced at him. "No. But I think we'll find out just when the Constable did pass up the street."

The Sergeant said briefly: "Sorry, Chief!" and picked up the telephone-receiver.

"My own fault. I didn't see that it might be important either. It may not be. Can but try."

While the Sergeant waited to be connected with the Glassmere Road Police Station, Hannasyde sat reading the notes on both cases, his brows knit. The Sergeant, having exchanged a few words with the official on duty at the police station, lowered the receiver, and said: "Just come on duty, Super. Will you speak to him?"

"Yes, tell them to bring him to the phone," said Hannasyde absently.

The Sergeant relayed this message, and while Constable Mather was being summoned, sat watching his superior with a puzzled but alert expression on his face. A voice speaking in his ear distracted his attention. "Hullo! Is that Mather? Hold on! Detective-Superintendent Hannasyde wants a word with you. Here you are, Chief."

Hannasyde took the instrument from him. "Hullo! This is with reference to last night, Mather. I want you to clear up a point which seems to have been left in the air."

"Yes, sir," said PC Mather dutifully.

"Do you remember at what hour you reached Barnsley Street on your beat?"

There was a slight pause; then the Constable said rather anxiously: "I don't know to the minute, sir."

"No, never mind that. As near as possible, please."

"Well, sir, when I passed the post office in Glassmere Road the clock there said 9.10, so by my reckoning it would be just about 9.15 when I got to Barnsley Street."

"What?" Hannasyde said. "Did you say 9.15?"

"Yes, Sir. But I wouldn't want to mislead you. It might have been a minute or so more or less."

"Are you quite certain that it wasn't after 9.30?"

"Yes, Sir. Quite. It wouldn't take me all that time to get to Barnsley Street from the post office. There's another thing, too, sir. Brown - the man with the coffee-stall - hadn't taken up his pitch when I passed."

"But Brown stated when questioned that he had seen you shortly after he arrived at 9.30!"

"Said he saw me last night?" repeated Mather.

"Yes, quite definitely."

"Well, sir," said Mather, in a voice of slowly kindling suspicion, "I don't know what little game he thinks he's playing, but if he says he saw me last night he's made a mistake. If I may say what I think, sir -'

"Yes, go on!"

"Well, Sir, I suppose for a matter of six or seven days he has seen me, for I've been down Barnsley Street, sometimes at one time, and sometimes at another, each evening, but always after 9.30. Only, as it so happens, I took Barnsley Street and Letchley Gardens early last night. It seems to me Brown was making that up, sir, kind of banking on what he thought probably did happen. If I may say so."

"All right: thanks! That's all."

Hannasyde replaced the instrument on its rest, and turned to find the Sergeant regarding him with newly awakened interest.

"You needn't tell me, Super! I gathered it all right. Mather passed up the street at 9.15, and Brown never saw him at all. Well, well, well! Now we do look like getting somewhere, don't we? What you might call opening up a new avenue. Who is Mr. Brown, and what has he got to do with the case? Come to think of it, he did answer me remarkably pat. But what he's playing at - unless he killed Carpenter - I don't see."

"Alfred Carpenter," said Hannasyde, disregarding these remarks. "What's his address? I want the name of that travelling company Carpenter joined."

"Back on to Angela?" said the Sergeant, handing over Alfred Carpenter's deposition. "She wasn't one of the members of the company, if that's what you're thinking."

"No, I'm not thinking that. What I want is a list of the towns visited by that company."

"Holy Moses!" gasped the Sergeant. "You're never going to comb the Midlands for a girl whose name you don't even know?"

Hannasyde looked up, a sudden twinkle in his deep-set eyes. "No, I'm not as insane as that - quite."

The Sergeant said suspiciously, "What do you mean by that, Chief? Pulling my leg?"

"No. And if the notion that has occurred to me turns out to be as far-fetched as I fear it is, I'm not going to give you a chance to pull mine either," replied Hannasyde. "Yes, I see Alfred Carpenter's on the telephone. Get his house, will you, and ask if he knows the name of that company or, failing that, a possible agent's name. He ought to be home by now."

The Sergeant shook his head in a somewhat dubious manner, but once more picked up the telephone. After a few minutes, he was able to inform his superior that Mr. Carpenter, denying all knowledge of the companies his brother had toured with, did seem to remember hearing him speak of an agent.

"It might have been Johnson, or Jackson, or even Jamieson," said the Sergeant sarcastically. "Anyway, he feels sure the name began with a j. Isn't that nice?"

"Good enough," Hannasyde replied. "I'll go into that in the morning."

"And what do you want me to do?" the Sergeant inquired. "Ask Mr. Brown a few searching questions?"

"Yes, by all means. Get hold of the girl again as well, and see if she sticks to her original story. And look here, Hemingway! Don't mention any of this to anyone at all. When you've interviewed Brown and Dora Jenkins, go down to Marley. I'll either join you there, or send a message through to you."

"What do I do there?" asked the Sergeant, staring. "Hold a prayer meeting with Ichabod?"

"You can check up on your own theory about Neville F'letcher's hat. You can take another careful look at the paper-weight, too."

"Oh, so now we go all out for young Neville, do we?" said the Sergeant, his gaze fixed on the Superintendent's face. "Are you trying to link him up with Angela, Chief? What have you suddenly spotted, if I may make so bold as to ask? Twenty minutes ago we had two highly insoluble murder cases in front of us. It doesn't seem to me as though you're particularly interested in Brown, so what is it you're after?"

"The common factor," answered Hannasyde. "It only dawned on me twenty minutes ago, and may very possibly be a mare's nest."

"Common factor?" repeated the Sergeant. "Well, that's the weapon, and I thought we'd been after that ever since the start."

"I wasn't thinking of that," said Hannasyde, and left him gaping.

Chapter Fourteen

The following morning was considerably advanced when Sergeant Hemingway was at last free to journey down on the Underground Railway to Marley. His two interviews had not been very successful. Miss Jenkins, vacillating between instinctive fear of the police and a delightful feeling of importance, screwed the corner of her apron into a knot, giggled, patted her frizzy curls, and didn't know what. to say, she was sure. She hoped no one thought she had had anything to do with the murder, because you could have knocked her down with a feather when she read about it in the paper, and realised why she had been questioned. Under the Sergeant's expert handling she gradually abandoned her ejaculatory and evasive method of conversation, and reiterated her conviction that the gentleman in evening dress had passed only a minute or two before the policeman, and had certainly been wearing an opera hat, ever so smart.

From what he had seen of the erratic young man, Sergeant could not believe that this rider could be applied with any degree of appositeness to Neville Fletcher. He left Miss Jenkins, and went in search of Mr. Brown.

This quest led him to Balham, where Brown lived, and was peacefully sleeping after his night's work, His wife, alarmed, like Miss Jenkins, by the sight of the Sergeant's official card, volunteered to go and waken him at once, and in due course Mr. Brown came downstairs, blearyeyed and morose. He looked the Sergeant over with acute dislike, and demanded to know why a man was never allowed to have his sleep out in peace. The Sergeant, who felt a certain amount of sympathy for him, disregarded this question, and propounded a counter one. But Mr. Brown replied testily that if the police thought they could wake a working-man up just to ask him what he'd already told them they were wrong. What he had said he was prepared to stand by. Confronted with PC Mather's own statement, he stared, yawned, shrugged, and said: "All right: have it your own way. It's all the same to me."

"So you didn't see the Constable, eh?" said the Sergeant.

"No," retorted Mr. Brown. "The street's haunted. What I saw was a ghost."

"Don't try and get funny with me, my lad!" the Sergeant warned him. "What were you doing at 9.40?"

"Cutting sandwiches. What else would I be doing?"

"That's for you to say. Ever met a chap called Charlie Carpenter?"

Mr. Brown, recognising the name, turned a dark beetroot colour, and invited the Sergeant to get out before he was put out. Rebuked, he defied the whole of Scotland Yard to prove he had ever laid eyes on Carpenter, or had left his coffee-stall for as much as a minute the whole evening.

There was little more to be elicited from him. The Sergeant presently departed, and made his way down to Marley. Finding Glass awaiting his orders at the police station, he said somewhat snappishly that he wondered he could find nothing better to do than hang about looking like something out of a bad dream.

Glass replied stiffly: "He that uttereth slander is a fool. I have held myself in readiness to do the bidding of those set over me. Wherein I have erred?"

"Oh, all right, let it go!" said the exasperated Sergeant. "You haven't erred."

"I thank you. I see that your spirit is troubled and ill at ease. Are you no nearer the end of your labour on this case?"

"No, I'm not. It's a mess," said the Sergeant. "When I've had my lunch, I'm going up to make a few inquiries about Master Neville's doings. He's about the only candidate for the central role we've got left. I don't say it was easy when North was a hot favourite, but what I do say is that it's a lot worse now he's out of it. When I think of the way he and that silly wife of his have been playing us up, I'd as soon arrest him for the murders as not."

"They have told lies, and it is true that lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but it is also written that love covereth all sins."

The Sergeant was quite surprised. "Whatever's come over you?" he demanded. "You'd better be careful: if you go on like that you'll find yourself growing into a human being."

"I, too, am troubled and sore-broken. But if you go to seek out that froward young man, Neville Fletcher, you will waste your time. He is a scorner, caring for nothing, neither persons nor worldly goods. Why, then, should he slay a man?"

"There's a lot in what you say," agreed the Sergeant. "But, all the same, his latest story will bear sifting. You go and get your dinner: I shan't be wanting you up at Greystones."

An hour later he presented himself at the back door of Greystones, and after an exchange of compliments with Mrs. Simmons, a plump lady who begged him to get along, do, retired with her somewhat disapproving husband into the butler's pantry.

"Tell me this, now!" he said. "How many hats has young Fletcher got?"

"I beg pardon?" said Simmons blankly.

The Sergeant repeated his question.

"I regret to say, Sergeant, that Mr. Neville possesses only one hat."

"Is that so? And not much of a hat either, from the look on your face."

"It is shabbier than one cares to see upon a gentleman's head," replied Simmons, but added rather hastily: "For man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart."

"Here!" said the Sergeant dangerously. "You can drop that right away! I hear quite enough of that sort of talk from your friend Glass. Let's stick to hats. I suppose your late master had any number of them?"

"Mr. Fletcher was always very well dressed."

"What's been done with his hats? Packed up, or given away, or something?"

"No," replied Simmons, staring. "They are in his dressing-room."

"Under lock and key?"

"No, indeed. There is no need to lock things up in this house, Sergeant!"

"All right," said the Sergeant. Just take me along to the billiard-room, will you?"

The butler looked a little mystified, but raised no objection, merely opening the pantry door for the Sergeant to pass through into the passage.

A writing-table set in one of the windows in the billiard-room bore upon it a leather blotter, a cut-glass inkstand, and a bronze paper-weight, surmounted by the nude figure of a woman. The Sergeant had seen the paper-weight before, but he picked it up now, and inspected it with more interest than he had displayed when Neville Fletcher had first handed it to him.

The butler coughed. "Mr. Neville will have his joke, Sergeant."

"Oh, so you heard about that joke, did you?"

"Yes, Sergeant. Very remiss of Mr. Neville. He is a light-hearted gentleman, I am afraid."

The Sergeant grunted, and began to coax the paperweight into his pocket. He was interrupted in his somewhat difficult task by a soft, slurred voice from the window, which said: "But you mustn't play with that, you know. Now they'll find nothing but your fingerprints on it, and that might turn out to be very awkward for you."

The Sergeant jumped, and turned to find Neville Fletcher lounging outside one of the open windows, and regarding him with the smile he so much disliked.

"Oh!" said the Sergeant. "So it's you, is it, sir?"

Neville stepped over the low window-sill into the room. "Oh, didn't you want it to be? Are you looking for incriminating evidence?"

"The Sergeant, sir," said Simmons woodenly, "wishes to know whether the master's hats are kept under lock and key."

"What funny things policemen are interested in," remarked Neville. "Are they, Simmons?"

"No, sir - as I informed the Sergeant."

"I don't immediately see why, but I daresay you have put a rope round my neck," said Neville. "Do go away, Simmons! I'll take care of the Sergeant. I like him."

The Sergeant felt quite uncomfortable. He did not demur at being left with his persecutor, but said defensively: "Soft soap's no good to me, sir."

"Oh, I wouldn't dare! Malachi told me what happens to flatterers. I do wish you had been here yesterday. I found such a good bit in Isaiah, all about Malachi."

"What was that?" asked the Sergeant, diverted in spite of himself.

"Overflowing scourge. I do think the Superintendent ought to have told you."

The Sergeant thought so too, but remarked repressively that the Superintendent had something better to think about.

"Not something better. His mind was preoccupied with my possible but improbable guilt. I think yours is too, which upsets me rather, because I thought we were practically blood-brothers. On account of Malachi. Why hats?" His sleepy eyes scanned the Sergeant's face. "Tell me when I'm getting warm. My ill-fated journey to London. Black felt. And Ernie's collection. Oh, did I borrow one of Ernie's hats?"

The Sergeant thought it best to meet frankness with frankness. "Well, did you, sir?"

Neville gave a joyous gurgle, and took the Sergeant by the hand. "Come with me. Do policemen lead drab lives? I will lighten yours, at least."

"Here, sir, what's all this about?" protested the Sergeant, dragged irresistibly to the door.

"Establishing my innocence. You may not want me to, but you oughtn't to let that appear."

"It's a great mistake to get any silly idea into your head that the police want to arrest an innocent man," said the Sergeant severely. He found himself being conducted up the shallow stairs, and protested: "I don't know what you're playing at, but you might remember I've got work to do, sir."

Neville opened the door into an apartment furnished in heavy mahogany. "My uncle's dressing-room. Not, so far, haunted, so don't be frightened."

"To my way of thinking," said the Sergeant, "the things you say aren't decent."

Neville opened a large wardrobe, disclosing a view of a shelf of hats, ranged neatly in a line. "Very often not," he agreed. "These are my uncle's hats. Theoretically, do you feel that private possession is all wrong? What sort of a hat was I wearing?"

"According to you, sir, you were wearing a black felt."

"Oh, don't let's be realistic! Realism has been the curse of art. That's what upset the Superintendent. He is very orthodox, and he felt my hat was an anachronism. Of course, I must have been wearing one of those that go pop. Irresistible to children, and other creatures of simple intellect, but too reminiscent of patent cigaretteboxes, and other vulgarities. Now tell me, Sergeant, do you think I borrowed my uncle's hat?"

The Sergeant, gazing at the spectacle of Mr. Neville Fletcher in an opera hat quite three sizes too small for him, fought with himself for a moment, and replied in choked accents: "No sir, I'm bound to say I do not. You'd - you'd have to have a nerve to go about in that!"

"Yes, that's what I thought," said Neville. "I like comedy, but not farce - I can see by your disgruntled expression that the hat lets me out. I hope it never again falls to my lot to be suspected of murder. Nerve-racking, and rather distasteful."

"I hope so too, sir," replied the Sergeant. "But if I were you I wouldn't jump to conclusions too hastily."

"You're bound to say that, of course," said Neville, returning his uncle's hat to its place on the shelf. "You can't imagine who the murderer can be if not me."

"Well, since you put it like that, who can it be?" demanded the Sergeant.

"I don't know, but as I don't care either, it doesn't worry me nearly as much as it worries you."