The Blind Side (22 page)

The sitting-room door banged, the outer door banged. Lee said,

“Well!”

Peter put his arm round her waist.

“I wonder whether she had been back for those letters before,” he said.

CHAPTER XXXII

Lucy Craddock leaned back in her chair with a sigh. “Oh, my dears, this does seem to have been a terribly long week.”

“It's not a week yet,” said Lee wearily. “This is only Saturday, and last Saturday I was in Paris with the Mervilles.”

Incredible that the time in Paris with the Mervilles should in retrospect appear quite pleasant. She put this into words, and got a piercing glance from Peter.

“Perhaps you feel sorry you didn't elope with your dago friend.”

“Almost, darling,” said Lee, with a momentary sparkle.

“Too dreadful!” said Lucy Craddock. “I have often thought that it would be such a comfort if some sort of an interval could be arranged—when something dreadful has happened, I mean—like they do in a play. The curtain goes down, and when it goes up again it is next week, or next month, or next year. Such a good arrangement.”

“Lucinda, you're a genius,” said Peter. “Personally, I vote for next year, by which time Lee and I will be married and at a comforting distance of about six thousand miles from Scotland Yard. Of course, it's not quite so much as the crow flies.”

Lee actually laughed.

“Do crows fly to India?”

“I don't know. Probably not. But the point, my darling child, is that policemen don't.”

The telephone bell rang from the hall. Lucy Craddock began to flutter.

“Oh, my dear boy, if it is Phoebe Challoner, I really don't think I feel equal—she's so very kind, but—”

“You are still utterly prostrated,” said Peter.

He departed, took up the receiver, and prepared to repel female friends in general and Miss Challoner in particular. But the voice which came to him along the wire was unmistakably male. It said in gruff, agitated accents,

“Hullo! Who's there? I want to speak to Mr. Renshaw.”

“Speaking,” said Peter gloomily, because the voice was beyond all question that of Bobby Foster, and to ring him up and if possible drag him into being an accessory after the fact was just the sort of thing that Bobby was likely to do.

The voice became even more agitated.

“Peter, I'm in the most awful jam—”

“And you'll be in a worse one if you start babbling on the telephone, my lad.”

“You know who's speaking?”

Peter groaned.

“I do. What do you want?”

“I'm in the most awful jam. I lost my head—you know, when I got to the office it came over me. I didn't think anyone would believe me. I lost my head and bolted. I haven't got any money. That's why I rang up. If you could let me have a tenner—and meet me—”

“Dry up!” said Peter. “I want to think.” He concentrated a horrible frown upon the instrument for about a minute and a half, and then spoke rapidly into the receiver.

“Are you there? Well now, listen! You know the church where the Beaver was married—well, go there, stand in the porch, and look out for me. I don't know if anyone is interested in my movements—I shall have to make sure about that. If I can get my car out I will. Look out for me and nip in the moment I stop. If I'm on foot, let me get past and then follow me. Don't speak to me until I stop and blow my nose. If you've got that, say yes, and don't say anything more. Got it? … All right.” He hung up, opened the sitting-room door, and called Lee.

“It wasn't anyone for you, Lucinda. I've got to go out for a bit.”

He took Lee into the kitchen and shut the door.

“Listen! That was Bobby. I'm going to meet him. I shall do my best to persuade him to give himself up, but if he won't, I shall have to let him have some money. How much have you got?”

“Five pounds seven and elevenpence halfpenny.”

“I'll take the fiver. Better not tell Lucinda. Don't worry.”

He got his car without any trouble, and after driving round the same block several times decided that Scotland Yard was not having him watched. He proceeded, therefore, to the church of St. Peter, Frith Street, and with a final glance out of his back window drew up by the kerb. Bobby Foster, embarrassingly large and conspicuous, emerged from the porch, snatched the door open, and plunged heavily in beside him. As the door slammed, the car moved off again.

Peter turned the corner with relief. Bobby was panting in his ear.

“Peter—it's been awful! You've no idea how awful it's been.”

“Oh, haven't I?”

“It's a marvellous bit of luck your bringing the car. You know, I've lost my nerve. I'm afraid to go near a station in case—”

“I should think you'd be arrested at once if you did. I suppose you know there's a warrant out against you?”

The wretched Bobby dithered.

“I know—I know. I bought a paper, and it said—Peter, you can't think what it feels like to see that sort of thing—in the papers—about oneself.”

Peter turned into a dull and deserted street and stopped the car.

“Now, Bobby—what's this all about anyhow? You'd better make a clean breast of it.”

“Peter, I swear—I mean, I wouldn't kill anyone—you know I wouldn't. You say that sort of thing—everyone does—but you don't mean it. I mean, I loathed Ross quite a lot because of Mavis, and I won't say I wouldn't have liked to get my hands on him. But, Peter, I swear I wouldn't shoot a man just because I loathed him—Peter, I
swear
I wouldn't!”

“All right, you've said it. I've got that. Now calm down and tell me what happened after I pushed you off home on the Tuesday night.”

Bobby clutched his head.

“I don't remember an awful lot about it. Did you push me off home?”

“I did, my lad. You had been looking on the wine when it was red to a very marked extent, also on the whisky when it was yellow, and possibly on the gin when it was white.”

Bobby shook his head.

“Not gin—I loathe it.”

“Well, I should think it was the only one of the lot you hadn't been sampling, and I gather from the proceedings at the inquest that you carried on the good work after you got home.”

“I don't remember much about that either,” said Bobby.

“Well, suppose we get on to something that you do remember.”

Bobby took out a very grimy handkerchief and mopped his brow.

“Well, I do remember saying something about shooting Ross. But I didn't mean it. Peter, you know I didn't really mean it.”

“That's all right. Carry on.”

Bobby mopped again.

“Well, the first thing that's really clear is coming up on to the landing outside Ross's flat.”

“How did you get into the house?”

“I don't know—the door must have been open.”

“Well, you were on the landing—”

“And the door of his flat was open—I could see a light—so I just walked right in. The sitting-room door was open too, and the light was on, and when I got inside, there he was, lying dead in the middle of the floor, and I got such a shock that if the door hadn't been there to take hold of, I'd have gone down too.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn't do anything—I just stood there looking at him. And the funny thing is that I was as sober as a judge. I remembered what I'd said about shooting him, and I thought, ‘If anyone finds me here, I'm done.'”

Peter took him by the arm.

“Bobby—where was the revolver? Was it in his hand?”

“Yes, it was—it was in his hand.”

“Then why didn't you think it was suicide?”

Bobby stared.

“I don't know—I didn't. I thought they'd put it on me, and I legged it. The stairs were all dark, but there was a light in the hall, and the hall door was open.”

“Do you know what time it was?”

“Yes, I do. That's one of the things I remember. There was a clock on the mantelpiece. It was five and twenty minutes to three.”

A tingling excitement ran through Peter's veins.

“Man—are you sure about that? Don't say you are if you're not.”

Bobby stared reproachfully.

“But I am sure—really. Didn't I tell you I was as sober as a judge? Seeing him lying there like that—well, it was the most awful facer. It brought me up with a jerk. I keep seeing it every time I shut my eyes.”

“The point is, did you see the clock?”

“Well, I did. It's one of those square, chromium-plated ones, and it's got bright green figures on the face, and the hands were between half past two and five-and-twenty to three.”

“Then,” said Peter, “it wasn't you that Lucinda saw run down the steps at a quarter past two.”

“Did she see someone?”

“I don't think there's the slightest doubt but that she saw Ross's murderer. Unfortunately she can't identify him. She only saw a shadow.”

“At a quarter past two?”

“Yes. She found the front door open just as you did, and the door of the flat and the sitting-room door, and Ross lying dead with his own revolver in his hand and Mavis's powder compact on the floor beside him. And when she saw that, she picked the compact up and ran out of the house, leaving everything open. Now the police found your fingerprints on the banisters and the sitting-room door, and half London heard you threatening Ross on Tuesday night, so when you bolted it seemed perfectly clear to the official mind that you had shot Ross and that Lucinda had seen you getting away. The only thing that nobody has been able to explain is how you got in—and that's a card you'll have to play for all it's worth, my lad. You couldn't get in without a key unless the front door was open, but the front door was left open by the murderer at two-fifteen or thereabouts, and you found it open when you rolled up at half past two. By the way, what have you done with Mavis?”

Bobby's mouth fell open.

“Mavis?”

“Mavis,” said Peter firmly. “What have you done with her?”

“I haven't done anything.”

“Where is she then?”

Bobby registered surprise.

“Isn't she at home?”

“She is not. She walked out of the house on Friday morning and hasn't been seen since. She is supposed to be with you, and Lucinda is frightfully upset about it. It is apparently worse to be compromised than to be arrested for murder.”

“But this is awful! Where can she be?”

“Perfectly safe, I am sure—you can trust Mavis for that. Now look here, Bobby, I've got that tenner you asked for in my pocket. If you shot Ross, take it and make the best get-away you can. But if you didn't—
if you didn't
—take my advice and come along with me to Scotland Yard.”

“Give myself up?”

“You've got it in one.”

“But they'll arrest me.”

“Bound to. But they'll do that anyhow. If you come along of your own accord, say you got the wind up and bolted, and then tell the yarn you've just told me, you'll get a much better kick-off than if you're arrested in some purlieu after a nerve-racking time of dodging the police. They'll get you in the end, so you might as well save yourself the wear and tear and come willingly.”

Bobby came.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Inspector Lamb sat immovably in his office chair. Mr. Peter Renshaw had been talking for some time. There might be something in what he said, but then again there might not. Time would show. It was a good job getting Foster under lock and key. There was always a lot of chatter about the police if they let anyone slip through their fingers. Mr. Renshaw had done a good job there, persuading him to come in. All in his own interests too, if he was innocent.

Mr. Renshaw reached his peroration.

“It's the timetable you've got to concentrate on, Inspector—you must see that—the timetable, and that outside door. Rush shuts it at eleven. I come in at twelve, find it shut, and leave it as I find it. Ross and Miss Grey come in at one o'clock. I don't see how anyone is going to argue that they left the door open. Ross opened it with his latchkey—and he withdrew the key, because it was found on him. To my mind it's quite impossible to suppose that he did that, and didn't shut the door. Now the murderer went out of that door at a quarter past two and left it open. Miss Craddock, arriving a moment later, finds it open, finds Ross dead, and runs out of the house, leaving all the doors open behind her. About ten minutes or so later Bobby Foster rolls up. He finds the doors open. He finds Ross dead, and the shock sobers him. He says he noticed the clock on the mantelpiece particularly, and that the time was between half past two and five-and-twenty to three. Being sober, he realizes his position and legs it, leaving all doors open. Rush finds the street door open in the morning. Meanwhile Miss Fenton walks in her sleep. She is already standing over Ross with the revolver in her hand when Miss Grey comes in to get the bag she left there earlier in the evening. This was somewhere between ten and five minutes to three. Miss Fenton drops the revolver and wanders back to her own flat. Miss Grey kneels down by Ross to see if he is really dead and gets her dress stained, then looks for her bag, finds it, and comes away, switching off the sitting-room light and shutting the door of the flat. That's when Miss Bingham saw her the second time. All this is what Miss Grey told her aunt, and it is what decided Miss Craddock to volunteer her statement, because of course if Miss Craddock saw Ross dead at two-fifteen, Miss Grey's presence in the flat at three o'clock no longer exposes her to suspicion.”

The Inspector broke the pause which followed.

“First of all,” he said, “Miss Craddock's statement is uncorroborated. Secondly, Mr. Foster's statement is uncorroborated. She says she was there at two-fifteen. He says he was there at two-thirty. They've both got very strong motives for mentioning those particular times, Miss Craddock because she clears her niece, and Mr. Foster because he clears himself.”