A Blunt Instrument (5 page)

"Well, then, stopp panning them. How do you know anything about this poor girl's end, anyway?" He laid the portrait down.

"Anything else, Chief?"

"Nothing so far."

At this moment the door opened and Miss Fletcher came in. She was dressed in deep mourning, and her plump cheeks were rather pale, but she smiled sweetly at Hannasyde. "Oh, Superintendent - you are a Superintendent, aren't you?"

He had risen to his feet, and unobtrusively slid the big blotter over the heap of photographs. "Yes, that's right, madam."

She looked at the mass of papers on the desk. "Oh dear, what a lot you must have to do! Now, tell me, would you like a little refreshment?"

He declined it, which seemed to disappoint her, and asked her civilly if she wished to speak to him.

"Well, yes," she admitted. "Only any time will do. You're busy now, and I mustn't disturb you."

"I'm quite at your disposal, Miss Fletcher. Won't you sit down? All right, Glass: you can wait outside."

"You have such a kind face," Miss Fletcher told him. "Quite unlike what one expected. I feel I can talk to you. Are you sure you won't have something? A little coffee and a sandwich?"

"No, really, thank you. What was it you wanted to say to me, Miss Fletcher?"

"I'm afraid you'll say I'm wasting your time. So silly of me not to have asked dear Mr. Lawrence while he was here! We have known him for so many years that I always say he is more like a friend than a solicitor, though of course there is no reason why he shouldn't be both, as indeed I hope he feels he is. It was particularly foolish of me, because it is just the sort of thing he would know."

"What is it, Miss Fletcher?" asked Hannasyde, breaking into the gentle flow of words.

"Well, it's the reporters," she confided. "Poor things, one knows they have their living to earn, and it must be very disagreeable work, when one comes to think of it, and one doesn't want to be unkind -'

"Are they worrying you?" interrupted Hannasyde. "All you have to do is to tell your butler to say that you have no statement to make."

"It seems so very disobliging," she said doubtfully. "And one of them looks dreadfully under-nourished. At the same time, I should very much dislike to see my photograph in the papers."

"Of course. The less you say to them the better, Miss Fletcher."

"Well, that's what I thought," she said. "Only my nephew is so naughty about it. It's only his fun, but you never know how much people will believe, do you? I suppose you wouldn't just hint to him that he oughtn't to do it? I feel that what you said would carry more weight than what I say."

"What's he been up to?" asked Hannasyde.

"Well, he's told one of the reporters that he's employed here as the Boots, and when the man asked him his name he said it was Crippen, only he didn't want it to be known."

Hannasyde chuckled. "I don't think I should worry very much about that, Miss Fletcher."

"Yes, but he told another of them that he came from Yugoslavia, and was here on very secret business. In fact, he's in the front garden now, telling three of them a ridiculous story about international intrigue, and my brother at the back of it. And they're taking it down in their notebooks. Neville's such a marvellous actor, and of course he speaks Serbian, from having travelled in the Balkans. But I don't think he ought to deceive those poor men, do you?"

"No, I don't," said Hannasyde. "It's most unwise to play jokes on the gentlemen of the Press. Hemingway, go and ask Mr. Fletcher if I can have a word with him, will you?"

"Thank you so much!" said Miss Fletcher gratefully. "Poor Neville, one always has to remember that he hasn't known a mother's love. I feel that accounts for so much, don't you? Not that he isn't a dear boy, of course, and I'm very fond of him, but he is like so many of the young people nowadays, so strangely heartless! Nothing seems to matter to him, not even a thing like this." Her lips trembled; she groped for her handkerchief, and dabbed her eyes with it. "You must forgive me: I was very much attached to my dear brother. It doesn't seem to me as though any of this can really have happened."

"It must have been a terrible shock to you," said Hannasyde sympathetically.

"Yes. You see, my brother was such a charming man. Everyone liked him!"

"So I understand, Miss Fletcher. Yet it seems that he had one enemy at least. Have you no idea who that might be?"

"Oh, no, no! I can't think of anyone. But - I didn't know all his - friends, Superintendent." She looked up anxiously, but Hannasyde said nothing. "That was one of the things I came to talk to you about," she ventured. "I'm afraid you will think it rather odd of me to mention such things, but I have made up my mind that I ought to."

"You may be perfectly frank with me, Miss Fletcher," he said encouragingly.

She fixed her eyes upon a point beyond his shoulder. My brother," she said in a faint voice, "had affairs with - with women."

Hannasyde nodded.

"I never inquired into them, and of course he never spoke of them to me, but naturally I knew. In my young days, Superintendent, ladies did not discuss such matters. Nowadays things are different, and young people seem to talk of everything, which I can't help feeling is a pity. It is much better to shut one's eyes to some things, don't you agree? But it has occurred to me - I thought it all over during the night - that whoever killed my brother may - may have done so from jealousy."

"Yes, that is a possibility," Hannasyde said.

"Yes. Of course, if it was so, it will have to come out. I quite realise that. But if you find it wasn't, or - or fail to discover the man who did it - do you think my brother's - private affairs - need be known?"

"Certainly not," Hannasyde replied. "I quite understand your feelings in the matter, Miss Fletcher, and I can assure you that I shall respect them as much as I possibly can."

"So kind!" she sighed. "I have such a dread of the papers printing horrid things about my poor brother - perhaps getting hold of letters. You know the sort of thing I mean, I expect."

"You need not be afraid of that," he assured her. "There are no such letters as you refer to."

"Oh, how thankful I am!" she breathed. "You have taken a load off my mind!"

She got up, as Sergeant Hemingway ushered her nephew into the room, and bestowed a tremulous smile upon the Superintendent. Neville came in talking in his soft, rapid way, and it was plain from Hemingway's strained, appreciative expression that his discourse was of an entertaining nature. When he saw his aunt he broke off in mid-sentence, and recommended her to make no statement to the police except in the presence of her lawyer. Miss Fletcher explained to Hannasyde that this was only his fun, and made her way to the door.

Neville closed it behind her, saying plaintively: "Of course, I know one has to obey the summons of the Law, but you interrupted me at a most delicate moment, Superintendent."

"I'm sorry," replied Hannasyde, adding with a gleam of humour in his eye: "International complications?"

"Yes, I had just worked in a Montenegrin patriot with a knife. The whole story was unfolding itself beautifully, but I've lost the thread now."

"Take my advice, and don't try to fool the Press. Suppose - though it's improbable - that your International story did get published?"

"Oh, but I do hope it will!" Neville said. "Really, it's a lovely story, and I've taken pains with it. I don't usually, but old Lawrence seems to think I ought to try to become more earnest. Did you want me for anything in particular? Because if not I'm in the middle of telling your Sergeant about an experience which befell me in Skopje. It isn't exactly a polite story, but I find he has a lovely dirty mind. In fact, we're practically affinities."

The reminiscent grin which still lingered on the Sergeant's face vanished. A dusky blush mounted into his cheeks, and he gave an imploring cough.

"I daresay," replied Hannasyde. "But this is hardly the time to indulge in smutty anecdotes, do you think?"

"Oh, I don't agree with you!" said Neville engagingly.

"Given the right company, there's no real close season for dirty stories."

"Tell me, Mr. Fletcher, did you know your uncle well?"

"I expect it'll save time if I say no," answered Neville. "I can see we are on the verge of talking at cross-purposes."

"Why?" Hannasyde asked bluntly.

"Oh, one doesn't know people. Mothers say they know their children through and through. Fallacy. Rather disgusting, too. Indecency inherent in over-probing, and results misleading, and probably disquieting."

"Oh!" said Hannasyde, who had followed this rapid and telegraphic speech with some difficulty. "I see what you mean, but it doesn't answer my question. As well as one person may know another, did you know your uncle?"

"No. Interest being the natural forerunner to understanding."

"You'd none in him?"

"Nor anyone, "cept objectively. An' I'm not sure of that either. Do you like people?"

"Don't you?"

Neville spread his hands out, slightly hunching his thin shoulders. "Oh, some - a little - at a distance."

"You seem to be an ascetic," said Hannasyde dryly.

"Hedonist. Personal contacts pleasant at first, but leading to discomfort."

Hannasyde regarded him frowningly. "You have peculiar ideas, Mr. Fletcher. They're not getting us anywhere."

A smile flickered in Neville's eyes. "Eschew my company. You see, I don't want to get anywhere. Prolonged intercourse with me is bad for your temper."

"You are probably right," returned Hannasyde with a touch of asperity: "I won't detain you any longer."

"Oh, can I go back to my entrancing reporters?"

"If you think it wise - or desirable."

"Like feeding goldfish," said Neville, drifting out by way of the window.

The Sergeant watched him go, and drew a long breath. "What I call a turn in himself," he said. "He's certainly a new one on me."

Hannasyde grunted. The Sergeant cocked an intelligent eye at him. "You didn't take to him, did you, Chief?"

"No. Or believe him."

"I'm bound to say I don't entirely follow his talk - what I can hear of it, which isn't much."

"I think he knows more than he pretends, and doesn't want to be questioned. However, he'll keep. I've nothing on him - so far." He looked at his wrist-watch, and got up. "Take charge of those papers, and the photographs, will you? I'm going now to call on Mrs. North. I'll leave Abraham Budd to you. Find out from Headquarters, while you're in town, if they've got anything out of the finger-prints."

He had no difficulty in finding his way to the Chestnuts, and, upon sending in his card, was ushered presently into a pleasant morning-room at the back of the house. There he found not only Helen North, but Miss Drew also, who was seated at a table in the window with a portable typewriter in front of her.

Helen came forward a few steps, saying nervously: 'Good-morning. I'm Mrs. North. I understand you want to see me?"

"Yes," Hannasyde replied. He glanced towards the window, and added: "Perhaps if I might have a word with you alone it would be best."

"Oh no! I mean, I would like my sister to remain. Won't you sit down? I - I've never entertained a detective before!"

"I should explain, Mrs. North, that I am investigating the murder of Ernest Fletcher, who I believe was an acquaintance of yours."

"Yes. Yes, I quite understand. Please go on!"

"You knew that Mr. Fletcher had been murdered?" he asked.

Before she could answer, Sally cut in. "In common with the butcher, the baker, the milkman, all the servants, the postman, and the paper-boy."

He looked at her appraisingly, but did not answer, merely inclining his head slightly.

"News gets round so frightfully quickly in the suburbs," Helen said, again with her uneasy, artificial laugh.

"Yes," he agreed. "I expect it does. When did you last see Mr. Fletcher, Mrs. North?"

"What's your reason for asking that question?" demanded Sally.

"I am investigating a murder, Miss -'

"I'm Sally Drew. You can hardly think that my sister knows anything about a murder."

"I'm quite ready to believe that she doesn't," he replied, with a good-humoured inflexion in his voice which surprised her. "But I have a reason for asking Mrs. North certain questions, and a right to do so."

"Oh, of course!" Helen said quickly. "Only it's rather difficult to say when I saw Ernie Fletcher last. Let me see now… it was probably in town. Oh yes, we were both at a party last week!"

"Are you quite sure that you haven't seen him since then?"

He kept his eyes on her face, taking note of the fluctuating colour in her cheeks, the frightened, wary look in her eyes that told plainly of indecision.

"Why, no, I - I don't think so!"

"You did not, by any chance, see him last night?"

"Last night?" Helen repeated. "Of course not! Whatever made you think I might have?"

"I have reason to think that some woman visited him yesterday evening."

"Good gracious, why should it be me, I wonder!"

He said in his quiet way: "Please don't misunderstand me, Mrs. North. I am quite prepared to find that the woman was not you. Indeed, I'm sorry to be obliged to worry you with these questions. But I'm sure you'll realise that the presence of a woman at Greystones last night must be investigated, for it is just possible that she, whoever she is, may be able to throw a little light on the murder."

"How?" she said quickly.

"She may, quite unwittingly, have seen the murderer."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, shuddering. "But it's preposterous to suppose that I-'

He interrupted, saying in a matter-of-fact way: "Well, Mrs. North, the question can be settled quite easily. What size in shoes do you wear?"

A quiver ran over her face; she threw a glance towards her sister, who stepped promptly into the breach. "Five-and-a-half, don't you, like me?"

"Yes," she admitted. "Yes, I do. I think most women of our height do."

"Thank you," said Hannasyde. "I wondered if you would lend me the shoes you were wearing last night?"