The Blind Side (10 page)

“No unpleasantness?”

“Certainly not.”

“No unpleasantness with Mr. Craddock?”

“Look here, Inspector—”

“I'd like an answer to that question, Mr. Renshaw.”

Peter smiled disarmingly.

“Well, the answer is in the negative.”

“You didn't see your cousin?”

“Certainly I saw him.”

“And where did you see Mr. Craddock?”

“I saw him at the Ducks and Drakes. I didn't speak to him.”

“Sure of that?”

“Quite sure.”

“Now why didn't you speak to him? Were you on bad terms?”

Peter shrugged his shoulders.

“I was with my party, and he was with his. We didn't meet, that's all.”

“You didn't answer my question. I asked if you were on bad terms with him.”

“Not bad, not good. We hadn't much in common, that's all.”

“I see,” said the Inspector. “Who was Mr. Craddock with?”

He had seen the question coming and known that he would be bound to answer it. Anyone at the Ducks and Drakes could put a name to Mavis. It would be fatal to hesitate. He said at once,

“Oh, he was with Miss Grey.”

“Miss Grey—she was an intimate friend of Mr. Craddock's?”

Again it would not do to hang back.

“A cousin,” he said carelessly.

“Miss Mavis Grey?”

“Miss Mavis Grey.”

“Ah! Were Mr. Craddock and Miss Grey still at the Ducks and Drakes when you came away?”

“Yes, they were.”

“Go on, Mr. Renshaw.”

“I came home, I went to bed, and I went to sleep. I was roused by Peterson's yell. I got on my dressing-gown and came out on to the landing. I followed him and Rush into this room, and saw my cousin lying dead.”

The Inspector leaned forward and raised his voice.

“And you picked up the revolver. I want to know what you did that for, Mr. Renshaw.”

“I know,” said Peter in a candid tone. “I oughtn't to have touched it. Rush ticked me off like anything.”

The Inspector banged with his fist on the table.

“You took hold of it by the butt, and you took hold of it by the muzzle, and if there were fingermarks on either, you took very good care to destroy them—and I want to know why.”

Peter gazed at him earnestly.

“Of course I knew the minute I'd done it that I ought to have left the damned thing alone.”

The Inspector banged again.

“And I'm asking you why you didn't leave it alone.”

Peter knitted his brows.

“Well, I suppose it was the shock. The first thing I knew I'd picked the thing up.”

“And the next thing you knew you were handling it all over!”

“Well, it's no good going on ticking me off. I mean—well is it? I must have done a bit of—what do they call it—unconscious cerebration, or I wouldn't have done it, would I? I've apologized, and I don't quite see what more I can do. I mean, it's, no good crying over spilt milk, is it, Inspector?”

“I should like to know why the milk was spilt,” said Inspector Lamb in a most unpleasant tone of voice.

Peter nodded thoughtfully.

“You know,” he said, “when there's an emergency you don't think, you just do things. Afterwards someone comes along and asks why you did them, just like you're doing now, and you haven't a single earthly notion. It's natural you should come over all suspicious, but don't you see, if I was a calculating criminal I should know exactly why I'd done everything, because I should have had it all mapped out, so that really, instead of getting suspicious because I can't give you even the most silly-ass explanation, you ought to regard it as a proof of my innocence.”

The Inspector took a good hard look at him. Peter sustained the look.

He had to sustain the thrust of a sudden question.

“What time did you hear the shot?”

Without batting an eyelid he said,

“I didn't hear it.”

The Inspector squared up to him.

“Now look here, Mr. Renshaw, I've seen your flat. That wall you're sitting with your back to at this minute is the wall of the bedroom in which you slept last night. Do you mean to tell me that you slept with your head right up against that wall and didn't hear the shot that killed your cousin?”

“I'm not telling you anything of the sort. You see, I didn't sleep in there last night. I went to bed there, but—well, it was a hot night and I thought I'd be cooler in the other room—the breeze was that way—so I slept on the sofa in the sitting-room.”

The Inspector looked him straight in the eye.

“Are you going to swear at the inquest that you didn't hear that shot?”

“Without a tremor. You see, it happens to be true. After all, you know, Inspector, there's quite a lot of traffic along here at night, and one gets used to it. There's not a lot to choose between a backfire and a revolver shot. My first night or two here I couldn't sleep. Now it's got me the other way round and I can't wake up.”

“And you didn't wake up last night? Are you going to swear that you didn't get up and go into your cousin's flat and quarrel with him?”

“I am.”

“Well then, Mr. Renshaw, I think that will be all for the moment. Have you any objection to letting us take your fingerprints?”

Peter smiled broadly.

“Oh, no objection at all. But you've got them already, haven't you? The—er—weapon must have been fairly well plastered.”

CHAPTER XV

Peter walked up and down in Lucy Craddock's sitting-room and waited for Lee to come back.

They didn't keep her long, but they kept her long enough for a young man in a state of strain to have several kinds of nightmares about what they might be asking her behind those two closed doors and what she might be answering. When she did come he thought she looked relieved.

“What did they ask you?”

“Not very much.” She sat down in the biggest chair and leaned back. Her brief white linen dress left her arms bare right up to the shoulder. She stretched them out on the big padded arms of the chair and closed her eyes.

“What do you mean by not very much?”

The soft lashes lay on her cheek.

“Just what you said. They wanted to know when I got here, and when I went to bed, and when I got up, and whether I heard the shot.”

“You didn't.”

“I told them I didn't. They asked me whether I was friends with Ross.”

“What did you say to that?”

The lashes flickered.

“I said not particularly. And then they asked about Mavis—whether she was a friend of mine, whether she was a friend of yours, and whether she was a friend of Ross's.”

“And you said?”

“That she wasn't particularly my friend or yours, but that she and Ross were friendly. It wasn't any good my saying they weren't, because Miss Bingham would be quite sure to give that away. She was going in as I came out.” Lee's eyes opened suddenly and wide. “Oh, Peter—do you suppose she heard anything? It's a frightful thought!”

“We can't do anything about it if she did,” said Peter gloomily.

He came and sat down on the floor in front of the big chair and laid his cheek against her hand.

“Don't let's bother about all these beastly people. Are you glad you didn't go to South America?”

The hand just moved against his cheek.

“I don't know—there wouldn't be any policemen—”

“If you were in South America with that dago you might be very glad to see a policeman.”

She tried to pull away her hand, but he caught it just in time. He began to kiss the palm.

“You want someone to look after you, my girl—that's what you do.”

Just at the moment it sounded rather nice. She sighed, and Peter said,

“I'm going to marry you out of hand, you know.”

The lashes were down again. There was more colour in the cheek on which they rested.

“Are you?”

“I think it can be done in about three days.”

“Don't I have anything to say about it?” She spoke in a soft, sleepy voice.

“Not very much. You can be there if you're good.”

“Thank you, darling.”

Peter kneeled up and took her in his arms.

“Lee, you will—you
will
—you really will.”

Her eyes opened. They looked startlingly dark and clear. They met his own, and without a word denied him.

“Lee—”

It was a long time before she said “No.”

“Why?” said Peter in an angry voice.

Something sparkled behind the fallen lashes.

“You can't marry everyone who asks you.”

“I don't want you to. I want you to marry me.”

“I can't think why.”

“You're not required to think—you're not very good at it anyhow.”

She opened her eyes and sat up.

“Peter, what an odious husband you'd make!”

“No, I shouldn't. I should make a very good husband indeed. I have all the qualities you require—good thinking-apparatus, reliable character, honest, sober, hard-working—”

“What Nanna used to call a good-living young man,” said Lee, still with the sparkle.

“Well, you do know the worst of me.”

“We should quarrel.”

“Of course. All happily married couples quarrel.”

A light shiver went over her.

“What's the matter?”

“Peter—when you said that—it sounded so nice and ordinary. Do you think we shall ever get back to being nice and ordinary again?”

“I hope so,” said Peter.

CHAPTER XVI

Miss Bingham came in with little tripping steps. Her head was poked forward and her eyes went here, there and everywhere. They had taken up the rug in the hall and washed the parquet. Such a relief. And in here, where poor Mr. Craddock's body had lain in that shocking pool of blood—yes, that rug was gone too. And the parquet did really cover the whole of the floor. She had always wondered about that, because it might have been just a surround, and Lucy Craddock, who ought to have known, never seemed to be sure about it or take any interest. Even in her cradle Miss Bingham had always taken an interest in everything.

She sat and preened herself in the chair which Detective Abbott set for her. She had dressed as carefully as if she were going to a wedding or a bazaar, the two most exciting social events within her orbit. But this was far more exciting than either. Everyone went to bazaars and weddings, but to be an important witness in a sensational murder case was something to distinguish one for ever.

She wore her best dress, a brown artificial silk with rather a bright zigzag orange pattern, and she had put on a new hair-net. She was very proud of the fact that mere was so little grey in her hair. There wasn't very much of it, but back-combed and well fluffed up under the net it could be made the best of, and it was still a very good dark brown. Under the fuzzy fringe and the rather marked dark eyebrows, Miss Bingham's eyes were as sharp and bright and restless as a squirrel's, and her cheeks as hard and red as August apples. There were a great many inquisitive lines about the eyes, and two very heavy ones running down from the nose to the chin. It was these lines which gave the upper lip a rather jutting appearance. About her neck Miss Bingham wore a long gold chain which had been her father's watchchain, and a string of bog-oak beads which had belonged to her mother.

She sat on the edge of her chair, and gave her name as Wilhelmina Ethel Bingham, unmarried. She occupied flat No. 12, immediately over Miss Mary Craddock's flat.

“That is to say, Inspector, it
was
Miss Mary Craddock's flat. A very dear friend of mine—a very dear friend indeed, and a most patient sufferer. An example to us all, I'm sure—”

“Quite so,” said the Inspector. “Mr. Renshaw is now occupying the flat.”

Miss Bingham bridled.

“I could hardly fail to be aware of
that
. All the years I have lived above Miss Craddock I never had to complain about a sound, but from the time Mr. Renshaw came in it has been a very different story.”

“Noisy—eh?” said the Inspector.

Miss Bingham slightly closed her eyes.

“Would you believe me if I were to tell you that he throws his boots across the room, positively
throws
them, every night when he takes them off—
and
several times during the day.”

“Very disturbing,” said the Inspector. “Well now, Miss Bingham, I can see you're a lady that notices things. What I want to know is whether you noticed anything unusual last night.”

“Indeed I did, Inspector—and I can only say that, shocking as it all is, I am not surprised. Over and over again I have said both to Lucy and to Mary Craddock that what was going on in this house was a scandal—right under their noses too. Over and over again I've said that something would happen if it went on. Why, I've even thought of moving—after being here ten years—so that will show you how I've felt about it.”

The Inspector cleared his throat.

“About last night, Miss Bingham—”

“Yes, yes—oh, yes. But we must take everything in order, mustn't we, Inspector?” She rummaged in a black suede bag and produced a rather crumpled sheet of paper. “Methods—that's what I always say. Most important, isn't it? I am sure you will agree. I have made a few jottings—just a few heads, you know—and if you will permit me, I will keep to my heads. ‘Begin at the beginning and keep straight on to the end.' That is what my dear father used to say, and I have found it a most excellent rule.” She coughed slightly. “My first head—”

The Inspector pushed his chair back with a loud scraping sound.

“I should be obliged if you would keep to the point, Miss Bingham.”

“Yes, yes—so very necessary—I quite agree.”