The White Cottage Mystery (11 page)

‘Well?' said Jerry.

‘Well, don't you see,' said the detective, ‘Gale was the last to leave the house, and supposing the theorists to have been correct, Gale was the man to have done the punching, because neither of the other two was the type to be silent for a pal's sake if his own skin was in danger.'

‘Then you say Gale killed the woman?' began Jerry.

W.T. made a deprecating gesture.

‘My dear boy, I don't say anything, I only
think
that he may possibly have done so. You see, the only plausible explanation to my mind of his ten years of uncongenial work with Crowther is that he was virtually in prison. Now, the only other thing besides bars that would keep Clarry Gale in prison is a fear of his precious neck … I mean to say,' he went on, ‘supposing Crowther
knew
that Gale had killed the woman – suppose he could prove it – and being the curious mental type we know he was, preferred to keep Gale under his thumb rather than give him up to the police. That would explain that ten years, wouldn't it?'

‘It would,' said Jerry. ‘Of course it would. But how could Crowther get to know of the crime?'

‘That,' admitted W.T., ‘is the chink in the armour.'

‘Chink?' said Jerry, grinning. ‘It's a darn big hole.'

W.T. nodded.

‘Perhaps you're right. Perhaps you're right,' he said affably. ‘But I've got a sort of feeling that that is more or less what happened. I don't know how – yet. But I think you'll find that I'm right. I've got that impression.'

‘As you had about Cellini?' put in Jerry.

W.T. coughed.

‘That, Jerry, is unfilial,' he said sedately.

Their conversation was abruptly ended by a tapping on the door. Jerry went to open it and came back with a package.

‘It's come,' he said.

‘It's from headquarters.' The old detective opened the long envelope, and taking the typed manuscript from within, spread it out upon a table under the light. Jerry leant over his shoulder, and they read it together.

‘Good heavens!'

W.T. laughed shortly with pure excitement. ‘Listen to this,' he said, ‘…
lived for some time in a house in Feering Park Crescent, W., under the name of Grant.'

‘My God!' said Jerry. ‘That means – '

‘That we weren't so far off the tack as you thought,' said the old man. ‘Now, let me see, how does this go on? Oh yes –
frequent visits to Paris, believed to be on the business of research work connected with the brain.
Then a great deal that we know.
Settled down in Brandesdon, Kent, with Italian secretary.
Yes, yes … yes. There's nothing else much there.'

W.T. ran his eye down the page. ‘Oh no; wait a moment. What's this?' he added, and read aloud:

The main bulk of his property was derived from his ward, Jack Grey, killed in France, 1914, at the age of twenty. As far as can be ascertained, Grey was placed under Crowther's guardianship two years before and lived with him for a short period in Brandesdon, Kent. At Grey's death his estate passed automatically to Crowther.

W.T. put down the manuscript and looked at his son.

‘At last,' he said slowly.

Jerry looked puzzled. ‘I'm afraid I don't follow quite,' he said. ‘Who was this Jack Grey?'

W.T. smiled.

‘That's just what we've got to find out, my boy,' he said, ‘but the fact that he existed at all tells us something. It was his money, you see.'

‘What money?' said Jerry.

‘Why, the money that Mrs Christensen “ought to have”, of course.'

Jerry sat down on the bed and rubbed his fingers through his sleek hair.

‘Who d'you
think
this fellow Grey was?' he said. ‘Some relative?'

The detective did not answer for a moment. He sat down in an armchair and leant back.

‘He may have been, of course,' he said at last. ‘We must find that out. But there are many other alternatives. He may have left
a will that Crowther suppressed, or expressed a wish that Crowther disregarded. We don't
know
anything about him yet. Everything we say is bound to be conjecture until we get some more facts. There may be nothing of importance in it after all, but there is one rather significant point in that report.'

Jerry crossed over to the table and looked down at it.

‘Oh,' he said, ‘what's that?'

W.T. closed his eyes and spoke slowly, trying to remember the actual wording of the phrase.

‘Doesn't it say “Jack Grey lived with Crowther at Brandesdon”?'

‘Yes,' said Jerry. ‘ “Lived with him for a short period in Brandesdon, Kent”.'

The detective nodded.

‘I thought so,' he said. ‘Doesn't it strike you as curious, Jerry, that no one mentioned him to us when we were making inquiries about Crowther? Surely the women would remember him … a lad about twenty, killed in France?'

Jerry grimaced.

‘I don't know,' he said; ‘it's some time ago … people do forget.'

‘Yes, but not when they're asked point-blank,' the detective persisted. ‘When I asked Mrs Christensen on the morning of the inquest if in her recollection Crowther had ever had any visitors, she insisted that he had not in all the six years and odd months he had lived at the “Dene”. Why didn't she remember Grey?'

The boy did not answer, but sat staring fixedly at the toes of his shoes.

‘As for Gale,' W.T. continued suddenly, ‘the fact that Crowther actually
was
the Grant in the Feering Park Crescent case is most enlightening. I think I must have been nearly exactly right in my guess there. What an amazing mentality the dead man must have had!'

As Jerry rose to his feet, an oblique-eyed boots boy appeared in the doorway.

‘Gentleman downstair' weesh to speak wid monsieur,' he said.

‘Oh,' said W.T. ‘What name?'

‘Meester Clarrigale.'

‘Clarry Gale!' W.T. and Jerry exchanged glances, and the detective spoke.

‘Show him up here, will you?' – and added as the door closed: ‘We're in luck tonight, Jerry.'

‘Well, guv'nor, 'ow
are
yer?' Mr Gale paused in the doorway, his hat in his hand and his peculiarly unpleasant little rat face clothed in a smile of apparently genuine pleasure.

‘'Ow
are
yer?' he repeated with exaggerated cordiality, and as the father and son sat silent, looking at him unsmilingly, he closed the door behind him, and sneaking further into the room, perched himself on the edge of a chair, his knees wide apart and his heels touching some two inches off the ground.

He continued to beam, and again Jerry was struck by the weakness in his unpleasant face.

W.T. sat looking at him, his bright eyes hard and very penetrating under their white brows. Clarry Gale continued to grin, however, not in the least discomposed by his somewhat cold reception. He looked round the room approvingly.

‘Nice an' comfortable 'ere, looks like,' he remarked after a pause.

Still W.T. did not speak, and the man's uncertain gaze travelled to the window through which the lights of the town were just visible from where he sat.

‘
Strik
-ingly beautiful place this,' he went on in the ludicrous conversational tone he had adopted. ‘
Strik-ingly
beautiful – the Coat Daz Ure.' And he sniffed vigorously.

The detective flicked his cigarette ash and then looked across at the unattractive object on the chair that was so much too high for him.

‘Well,' he said at last, ‘what's the game, Gale?'

‘Gime – wot gime?' Mr Gale's expression was innocent

W.T. smiled faintly.

‘To what am I indebted for this visit?' he said gravely.

Clarry Gale wriggled on his uncomfortable chair.

‘You mean w'y 'ave I come?'

‘Exactly.'

Mr Gale sniffed again, and Jerry noticed how long and damp his moustaches were – like a drayhorse's, he reflected.

‘W'y 'ave I come?' Mr Gale repeated, with jovial indignation. ‘W'y 'ave I come? You're a nice one, you are – is that the w'y to welcome an old friend in a foreign land?'

Jerry began to wax impatient. The man annoyed him, and his arms ached to chuck him out. W.T. appeared to be getting a certain amount of amusement out of the interview, however, and his eyes twinkled when next he spoke.

‘I beg your pardon, Gale,' he said; ‘I did not understand at first – you have just come on a friendly visit?'

‘Yes, that's right,' said Mr Gale, his grin returning. ‘Jus' a frien'ly visit – like anyone might pay.'

‘Like anyone might pay,' repeated W.T. with satisfaction, and there was silence in the room.

Mr Gale cleared his throat encouragingly once or twice, but neither W.T. nor Jerry seemed anxious to take the hint, and after a while he was forced to reopen the conversation himself.

‘Down 'ere on business?' he inquired at last with exaggerated casualness.

‘Sure,' said the detective, and again there was silence.

Mr Gale's feet began to swing to and fro and his eyes wandered vainly round the room for a topic of conversation. W.T. came to his rescue.

‘Are you on business, Gale?'

‘Me?' The little man shot a suspicious glance at the detective, but the old man's face was serene and benevolent as ever. ‘Well,' he continued at last, spreading the word out until it was an explanation in itself, ‘in a way yes, and in a way no, as
you
might say. Mainly I'm 'ere on a holiday – '

‘Oh yes?' said W.T. with innocent interest.

Gale eyed the other man doubtfully.

‘My 'ealth wasn't so good, yer see, an' my doctor 'e said to me, “The Souf of France is the place for you, my boy.” So, ‘appening
to 'ave a bit of money left me sudden by a frien', I comes over 'ere.'

‘For your health's sake?' said W.T.

‘Well, w'y not?' said Mr Gale.

‘Why not?' said the detective blandly.‘Ten years' hard isn't good for anyone's health.'

‘Eh?' Mr Gale looked up sharply. ‘Wot yer drivin' at?'

‘Driving at? Nothing. What should I be driving at?'

‘I don't know.' Mr Gale shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘We're all matey 'ere, aren't we?'

‘I think so.'

‘Wot d'you mean – “think so”? We are, ain't we? I'm just payin' you a friendly visit because I 'appened to know you was down 'ere – that's all, ain't it?'

‘That's all,' said W.T., adding innocently, ‘as far as I know.'

‘Then 'oo's talking about ten years' hard?' said Mr Gale, to whose ears the words had had an ominous sound.

‘That was only a figure of speech,' said the detective easily. ‘I was referring to your life at the “ Dene”, Brandesdon. That was pretty hard, wasn't it?'

‘It was 'ell,' said Mr Gale explicitly. ‘'E was a one, 'e was – orf 'is bloomin' onion, I believe. They oughter 'ave 'ad 'is 'ead up at the ‘orsepitals to 'ave a look in after 'e was dead. I didn't 'arf lead a life wiv 'im.'

‘I wonder you stuck it.' W.T. put the question casually, and Clarry Gale nearly fell for it. His expression changed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but caught himself up in time and shrugged his shoulders elaborately to hide his sudden reticence.

‘Jobs are hard to get, guv'nor,' he said, adopting a pious whine. ‘Especially when you've been the type of man wot I 'ave,' he added sententiously.

‘Eh?' said W.T.

Clarry Gale nodded virtuously.

‘I said wot I '
ave
been,' he repeated pointedly. ‘I mean, we're all frien's 'ere. You know wot I 'ave been – it's no good me pretendin' wiv' you.'

‘Not in the least,' said W.T. with polite ambiguousness.

‘That's right, then,' said Mr Gale happily. ‘But bein' down 'ere for a noliday, and seein' an old frien' in a bit of a fix as you might say, I thought I'd come along and give you a 'and, see?'

W.T.'s expression did not change.

‘That's very nice of you, Gale,' he said pleasantly. ‘But what makes you think I'm in a bit of a fix, as you call it?'

Clarry Gale grinned and winked knowingly.

‘You can't come it over me, guv'nor,' he said. ‘I know the police so well – one way an' another. Still, wot is there to be touchy over? It ain't everyone who can find 'is way about a foreign town all in a minute. You've jest been unlucky, that's all. But it so ‘appens that I'm in a persition to give you just the bit of information you require.'

W.T. still smiled, but there was a faintly mystified expression in the back of his eyes.

‘Turning detective in your old age, Gale?' he said. ‘How d'you like the job?'

‘Suits me fine. Now, guv'nor, what's it worth to you?'

A light of understanding flashed into W.T.'s face.

‘What is what worth?' he demanded.

Clarry Gale shook his head.

‘Play fair, guv'nor, play fair,' he admonished. ‘Plain speaking asks for plain speaking, don't it?'

‘It does,' agreed W.T. ‘What is this piece of information you want to sell me?'

Gale looked doubtful.

‘You never was a man to act dirty, guv'nor,' he said. ‘Wot yer playin' at? You know you've been ‘anging around 'ere these last two days lookin' for somebody you ain't been able to lay your 'ands on.'

‘Oh,' said W.T., who was beginning to see how the land lay. ‘And what makes you think I haven't been able to find – er – what I've been looking for?'

‘Well, you ain't 'ad no interview, 'ave you?' The words broke from the old lag involuntarily, and W.T. glanced at him sharply.