Murder of a Snob (23 page)

“So you believe he did all that, not at five-fifteen, as he stated, but about five-thirty—after slipping back to the house from the car?”

“Yes—but he believes he only went once to the library.”

“Wait! After killing his uncle, he left the library by the window, according to your present version. We know that he did not go out by that window at five-thirty. Further, we found the library door locked on the inside.”

“There are probably lots of discrepancies besides the discrepancy of time,” she said. “I wish I could believe that they added up to something.”

Ralph's finger prints had not been found on the die-stamp. But he must not tell her so, any more than he must tell her about the wig. She had changed sides. Only her personality—only the impression of honesty she made upon him—prevented him from assuming that she was shielding the real murderer. Who might be herself. He thought of Benscombe's ‘appreciation':
‘Motive and Opportunity: Claudia Lofting.'
He did not know that he was scowling.

“You don't agree with me about Ralph,” she was saying. “I wish you could make me agree with you.”

Crisp blinked. What was she driving at now?

“So much depends,” she continued, “on whether you feel in your bones that a person is telling the literal truth. That's the way I felt that Ralph was neither lying nor building a fantasy.”

He sensed that she was edging up to something—kept silent so that she should take her own way.

“Facts are stronger than feelings-in-your-bones,” she went on. “Not little facts about locked doors and the times you went out by doors and windows. Big facts. Did Ralph really make that dreadful swing of his arm with the die-stamp? Was he building a fantasy when he lifted my hair at the back—to show how the wig had stuck out?”

Crisp was certain only that he must get away from her. Whatever answer he might make, she would extract from it what she wanted.

“We've tried to help each other—and we haven't been very lucky.” He was forcing a breeziness of manner which could hardly have deceived her. “I'm sorry you don't want to try to get Ralph to alter his plea, but there it is!”

Back in the office, Benscombe was waiting with a report from the Italian Consulate.

“Tarranio and Fabroli, sir. Wine merchants in Casa Flavia, as stated. Nothing is known to the detriment of either. Tarranio has a branch in London—Soho—and comes over several times a year. I've found out that he's expected at any time.”

“We can tick them off, then,” said Crisp indifferently. “That Casa Flavia sequence never promised very much.”

“I thought we were going to quarry it for a motive against Fenchurch.”

“Too late to worry about motives!” ejaculated Crisp. “Unless motive puts you on the right line within a few hours it will probably mislead you. Work it out yourself. As soon as something goes wrong with the original plan—as soon as we start working on a line unforeseen by the criminal, his motive changes into that of cutting his loss and saving his skin. Neither Ralph's confession nor Querk's refutation of it can have been planned. You may take it that, at this stage, everybody's motive is to get clear.

“Look where motivation landed you with Claudia. You gape at Fenchurch's picture and kid yourself that she's a saint and a devil and a nice girl and an arch humbug all done up in one parcel. You then assume that she scuppered Watlington in order to make sure of being able to nurse the young man for life. True or not, that motivation has petered out. At this moment she says she believes Ralph is guilty—because he described to her so vividly how he struck Watlington through his wig!”

Benscombe had been waiting to get a word in edgeways.

“Yes, sir. Because the part of the original plan that did
not
go wrong is the bit where the two innocent persons—Ralph and Querk—let us know that the Fenchurch letters were enclosed with the Will. The murderer had an answer ready for that one.”

As Crisp made no comment, Benscombe continued:

“The murderer's answer was given by Claudia, when she said that Watlington had changed his mind about the marriage—with the inference that he destroyed the letters himself. Querk's evidence comes very close to a denial of that. When Claudia tells Fenchurch that ‘the pace is getting hot'—Fenchurch's own words—we find a piece of brown paper which leads to Fenchurch counteracting Querk's statement and himself coming very close to confirming Claudia's statement. And now we find that Claudia believes in Ralph's guilt! Does she believe it, sir, or is she ‘cutting her loss and getting clear'?”

“I don't know. But one can be too clever at this game of guessing what people are thinking. Because a person appears to be transparently honest, it doesn't follow that that person is a crook. Unless we can unearth some solid fact about Fenchurch—”

He broke off as the telephone rang.

“Take that call, will you,” he ordered.

Benscombe picked up the receiver. A couple of seconds later he caught his breath.

“Yes, hold on a minute, please. I'll put you through to the Chief Constable.”

He clapped his hand over the mouthpiece and then:

“Sir! Have this call traced while I stall him,” he whispered.

Crisp slid noiselessly to the instrument on Benscombe's desk, while the latter embarked on the stalling process.

“Hullo? I'm afraid I shall have to keep you waiting a minute or so. The Chief Constable is himself speaking on the telephone. I'm his aide—his secretary, you know. Is there anything I can do for you?”

The answer was a still greater surprise to Benscombe.

“D'you mean you're the young man who was with him in my flat this morning?”

“Yes,” gasped Benscombe. “Who are you, please?”

“I'm Mrs. Cornboise, of course. Now, you know what you did at the Goat-in-Flames this morning!”

“Yes,
Mrs. Cornboise!
“ Benscombe had passed the news to Crisp.

“Well, I've been round there and they wouldn't let me into his room. They didn't mind for themselves, but they said you'd sealed the room up.”

“Quite correct, Mrs. Cornboise.”

“I'm not so sure it's all that correct. You've sealed up something of mine I left there when I went to see him. I want it.”

“I'll see what can be done if you'll tell me what it is … Hullo! Are you there?”

“Of course I'm there! I was only collecting my thoughts. It's a bag, not my ordinary one, because I brought that back. Now I come to remember, it must be the small handbag with a handle.”

With soothing remarks, Benscombe cut off.

Crisp looked up.

“Are you sure it's the same voice, Benscombe?”

“Yes, sir. It's two tones lower on the telephone. I thought it was a man at first.”

“As you are sure—come along.”

The way to Kilburn lay past Watlington Lodge. Ahead of them as they approached, a car came through the Lodge gates and turned on to the London road.

“That's Querk's car, sir. He may be going there too. Shall we race him?”

“No. You could only beat him by a few minutes. Trail him.”

Led by Querk's car, they took the main London Road. Benscombe closed up to within fifty yards.

“There's someone beside him sir.” Benscombe drew out, to get an angle on his view through the back window of Querk's car. “A girl!”

“Claudia?”

“Can't tell. I don't think they're Claudia's shoulders.”

In time, Querk turned north to Kilburn. Near the corner of Acacia Road, Benscombe stopped. Crisp took out his watch.

“They've had two minutes—that's long enough. We'll join the party.”

Having rounded the corner, Benscombe suddenly put on speed.

“He's left the girl in the car.” A moment later: “It's Glenda Parsons—Fenchurch's girl. And she didn't look up—hasn't seen us.”

A couple of hundred yards on, he turned into a side street.

“You stay in the car,” ordered Crisp. “Trail Querk when he comes out. I'll take a taxi back.”

Crisp walked along. About to enter the building, he turned to Querk's car.

“Good afternoon, Miss Parsons.”

“
Oo!
” wailed Glenda. “Good afternoon.”

“Is this your car?”

“No—it belongs to a gentleman friend who's giving me a lift.” She added: “If we oughtn't to have parked here, I'm ever so sorry, and I'm sure he won't be long.”

So she thought that a Chief Constable would go on the prowl for parking offences! Anyhow, she had given him an idea.

“I shall have to send your gentleman friend a caution. What's his name and address?”

“Well, he's a Mr. Harris, as a matter of fact,” said Glenda. “I'm not sure of his address, as he moved the other day. If it's only a caution, you can send it care of me and I'll see that he gets it and tells you he's sorry. My address—”

“We have your address,” said Crisp. Under her eye, he turned into the building, having learnt that she was up to some little racket with Querk in which his name was not to be mentioned.

After some delay, Crisp's knock was answered, not by the teen aged maid, but by Mrs. Cornboise herself.

“What
again!
” she exclaimed. “I expect it's my fault for bothering you about that bag. I'm much obliged to you, I'm sure.”

She held out her hand as if she expected him to produce the bag from his person. She was still wearing the black satin dress, but her appearance had changed. With something approaching awe, Crisp became aware that her face had been made up—apparently by her own inexpert hand. There were uneven smears of rouge on her cheeks: incredibly, too, she had toyed with lipstick. With her incongruously youthful-looking eyes, the total effect was one of rather gross disreputability.

“You'll excuse me not asking you to step in, as I have company,” she added. She was waiting for that bag.

“You shall have your bag, Mrs. Cornboise, as soon as we've found it—and examined the contents.”

Crisp had pitched his voice to carry into the flat. As he expected, the door of the sitting-room was opened by Querk.

“My dear Mrs. Cornboise! Colonel Crisp and I are already acquainted. I would never forgive myself if I were the cause of inconveniencing either yourself or the Chief Constable. Won't you ask the Colonel to join us?”

Behind the gush, Crisp perceived the challenge. Querk had taken charge of this witness and intended to keep charge. That meant he was running a little racket with Mrs. Cornboise, as well as with Glenda.

“Well of course he can come in, if he wants to!” said Mrs. Cornboise in manifest disappointment. She was not good at taking a lead. He did not envy Querk his task.

“It is most fortunate that you happened to call at this time,” Querk was intoning as they drifted into the stage-property kitchen. “Mrs. Cornboise was saying only yesterday that her position as a most reluctant witness is a somewhat unenviable one—even, in certain contingencies, an ambiguous one. For that reason, we agreed that, in any future interview desired by the police, it would be in the interests of—er—both sides, if Mrs. Cornboise were represented by—ah—myself.”

“
Did
we!” Mrs. Cornboise, sitting upright in the wheel-backed chair, looked so astonished that Querk was forced to add:

“Not in those words, perhaps. But I think that was the burden of our little talk. As the Chief Constable is doubtless aware, I happen to be a qualified solicitor, though I have not sought regular practice. So if you feel you have sufficient confidence in my poor abilities, my dear Mrs. Cornboise—”

“You don't need to ask me that, Mr. Querk. You know I have all the confidence in you anybody could possibly have in anybody else!”

The harsh, deep-toned voice had softened to a simper. The mis-decorated face puckered into a smile. In fact, the suspicion entertained by Benscombe was justified. Boy meets girl. Or, at least, Girl Meets Boy! But what the devil was Querk up to, he wondered.

“As you please,” said Crisp. “You gave me certain information, Mrs. Cornboise, as to what you observed from that seat in the garden. This morning you added information about the car. Have you any other information to give us which you, for your own reasons, have held back?”

“I think, Chief Constable,” cut in Querk, “that we are entitled to ask that questions should be of a specific nature.”

Querk, of course, knew that the power of the police was limited to the power of arrest on suspicion, which had to be justified—that in no circumstances could he demand an answer to his questions. Crisp perceived that he would find out nothing about Mrs. Cornboise that Querk wished to be concealed. The point of interest was—what did Querk wish to conceal?

“Specifically, Mrs. Cornboise, did you leave the garden at any time and enter the house?”

“Do not answer that question!”

Querk had almost shouted. Crisp grinned.

“Mr. Querk, I'm wondering what an innocent person could possibly lose by answering that question?”

“Innocent!” Querk registered surprise. “My dear Colonel, can you believe that I am concerned with the
innocence
of Mrs. Cornboise in the matter of the
murder?
Surely that is too obvious to merit our attention! I am concerned with the difficult question of molestation. If Mrs. Cornboise had entered that house uninvited, her entry might well be construed by the trustees as an act of molestation. Under the terms of the Trust she would then be in danger of losing her income.”

Crisp, amused, wondered what the next excuse would be.

“On that afternoon, Mrs. Cornboise, did you see Lord Watlington—whether alive or dead, did you see him?”

“By connotation,” cut in Querk, “that is the same question, since it would have been impossible to see my poor friend—living or dead—from the garden.”