Beyond this place (7 page)

"There's a young fellow to see you. He's in the visitors' room."

Surprised, Paul followed the boy to the musty little lounge, furnished with stiff cane chairs and a potted palm, modestly screened by a bead curtain, and set apart for the reception of guests. As he pushed through the clicking beads he perceived with a start, seated on one of the cane chairs, the clerk from the library.

Paul advanced hesitantly.

"Good evening."

"You didn't expect to see me."

"No, I didn't."

The young librarian accepted this directness with a quick, lively smile. Detached from his official position he was perkier than ever, with a naive and ingratiating frankness that was disarming yet, to Paul, in his present mood, almost an embarrassment.

"I've something to say to you." His glance briskly swept the empty room. "I suppose we can talk here without being overheard."

Paul stared so hard the other gave a short chuckle.

"I realise you don't quite get me yet, but I'm quite a decent sort. My name's Boulia . . . Mark Boulia."

He held out his hand, Paul gripped it, then sat down. The situation was beginning to give him a sensation of queer expectation. Mark studied him quizzically before he resumed.

"That first day at the library I watched you — I couldn't help it, you were so obviously ... in difficulties. I felt sorry for you, and friendly too. You know how it is, how you take to a person at first sight. Afterwards I went through the file." He made, not without self-satisfaction, the statement of fact. "I know who you are and all about you."

All this Paul had surmised. He kept silent, listening intently as the other went on.

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"Yesterday you were looking for some further references. You didn't trace them. But when you had gone, I did. In one paper, only one, the Clarion, a liberal paper with practically no circulation, I found a comment on the Swann trial. Oddly enough it was a protest against the extreme harshness of Swann's sentence."

Paul's face was pale, unreadable, yet with a dark fire burning in his eyes. At last he said:

"Why are you telling me this?"

Mark shrugged, drew down his lips in a half-humorous smile.

"Because you wanted to find Swann."

Paul shook his head slowly. "It's no good."

"Why not?"

"Not after fifteen years."

"Don't be too sure." Mark's eyes sparkled, his air turned slightly jaunty. He waited just long enough to make his words important. "As a matter of fact, I have found him."

Paul felt his mouth turn dry. He stared unbelievingly at this odd individual who nodded with alert composure.

"It wasn't too difficult . . . after what you told me. I took a flyer and checked the relief lists, also the registers of the work house, and of all the city hospitals. Swann is in Belvedere Infirmary."

CHAPTER X

THE ward where Swann lay was long and narrow, with whitewashed walls and a sloping ceiling containing a row of fanlight windows. This was the pauper ward of the infirmary, a bare and dismal dormitory. The bed, completely screened off, was raised upon wooden blocks, and on the floor there lay an oxygen cylinder equipped with a long inhaler. The indefinable smell of sickness, of organic dissolution, had even imposed itself over the pungent odour of carbolic.

Propped on two pillows, Swann lay with his limbs extended,

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his eyes upturned to the ceiling. His frame showed that he had been a big man, but now he was much emaciated and his sunken face — the drawn cheeks exaggerating the length of the nose — showed yellow against the white coverslip, with a curious bronze mottling of the skin. His fingers, limp on the counterpane, had thickened ends. His shallow, listless breathing barely disturbed the contour of his ribs.

It was the afternoon visiting hour and, beside the bed, Paul stood with Mark Boulia. They had arrived ten minutes ago and Mark, not without tact, had made Paul known to the sick man. Paul had then made an impassioned plea. And now, overcome by the significance of the moment, he waited tensely for Swann to speak.

Swann did not hurry, he had his own thoughts. But presently, without moving, he let his eyes fall on Paul and after a pause, remarked in a faint, hoarse tone:

"You're like him."

He then returned his gaze to the fanlight and was silent for a long time before resuming in that same spent voice.

"It's queer I should see you now. After what happened to me I swore I'd keep my mouth shut — I was a fool ever to open it. But you're Mathry's son. And I'm done for anyway. So here goes."

A short pause — Swann seemed to be looking deep into the past.

"When I was assigned to the Eldon murder case I was keen as mustard — a bit different to what I am now — and I remember like it was yesterday when the big clue came in. A bookie's tout named Rocca turned up at headquarters. . . . Yes, flash Harry Rocca ... a weak-kneed rotter if ever I saw one, and in such a state of panic he could scarcely talk. But he did talk, and what he said was this — he'd been friendly with the murdered woman over a period of twelve months, had gone home to sleep with her often, and had spent the night with her on September seventh. But he'd had nothing; to do with the murder, he couldn't have, because on September eighth and ninth he'd been in Doncaster, at the races, and had a dozen witnesses to prove it. He'd come forward voluntarily to clear his name.

"Well, this didn't help us much, we knew that Spurling had

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a pretty wide circle of admirers, but we thought we'd detain Rocca anyhow. When he heard that he was to be held he turned green and really spilled the beans. He told us about his pal, Rees Mathry, who had been sweet on Spurling. He told us how worried Mathry had been about the publicity we had given the hand-sketched post card. Above all, he told us about Mathry's attempt to fake an alibi. Now this news was wonderful for us — after being stuck for nearly three weeks we had a red-hot trail to follow. And the things got hotter when we found that the man we were after had just left for the port of Liverpool. We telephoned Liverpool at once and Rees Mathry was picked up."

Swann paused, moistened his lips.

"Unfortunately for him, Mathry was a quick-tempered man, he resisted his arrest, made the fatal mistake of striking an officer. Add on the fact, as I've just said, that he was taken in the very act of leaving for South America, and you had a very damning situation. And straight away he made it worse. Naturally, at his preliminary examination the first question asked of him was: 'Where were you between eight and nine on the evening of September eighth?' Not knowing that his friend had given him away, Mathy answered: 'Playing billiards with a man named Rocca.' That seemed to put the clincher on it."

Swann let his head fall back, and a queer look came into his lack-lustre eyes.

"I must tell you about my boss, the Superintendent — now he's the head of the Wortley police, Chief Constable Adam Dale. The son of a Cumberland farmer, he'd worked his way up from the bottom, was strict on discipline, loyal to his men, a first-rate officer, and he never took a bribe in his life. He loved his work and used to boast to me that he could spot a criminal a mile away. And from the beginning, he'd spotted Mathry."

Fired by his own words, the sick man strove to raise himself upon his elbow.

"Now for me it wasn't so easy. Although the evidence seemed so conclusive, I pointed out that Mathry had booked the tickets to South America in his own name, that he had likewise engaged rooms at the Liverpool hotel for himself and his family quite openly, without concealing his identity — a thing inconceivable

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in the case of a man who was afraid of pursuit and who wished to cover up his traces. Besides, in spite of the chain of damaging evidence, Mathry impressed me favourably. He made no attempt to deny that he knew Spurring, acknowledged he had sketched and sent her the post card. And he maintained he was only out for a bit of mild amusement. Now that flirtatious, slightly silly message on the card, 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder' bore this out exactly. Again, the injuries to Spurring were so terrible they could only have been inflicted by a powerful individual, and Rees was slightly built. His character was lightweight too, and this struck me as a conceivable explanation of his attempt to arrange the alibi with Rocca. Nervous and worried, more and more alarmed by the publicity given his stupid post card, he might have felt the need of somebody to back him up. A foolish step — but one that fitted the pattern of his story.

"I put all this up to the Chief but he would not listen, he was convinced — and quite honestly, mind you — that he had the right man."

Swann sank down on his pillows and rested for a moment before resuming, more quietly:

"The official mind works in regular channels — nobody knows that better than me — and the routine set in motion by Chief Constable Dale followed the standard and, of course, perfectly proper practice. He wanted to find a weapon among Mathry's belongings accountable for the victim's injuries. He wanted to discover blood stains upon Mathry's suit. He wanted witnesses who could identify Mathry as the man seen at the scene of the crime.

"Almost at once, in one of Mathry's trunks, the Chief Constable found his weapon. This was a razor, a large old-fashioned German blade, slightly rusty from disuse. Mathry freely admitted it had been in his possession for years — he had inherited it from his father. He had often been tempted to scrap it, but for sentimental reasons he hadn't. Now, if Mathry had used this blade to do the deed was it likely that he would have carefully and considerately preserved it for us to find? No, no, without exception the first action of a murderer is to rid himself of the weapon.

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Yet Dale was near jumping with pride and satisfaction when he showed the razor to me.

" Didn't I tell you,' he declared. 'We have him now.'

"It was sent to the experts to be examined tor blood stains, along with a large package of Mathry's clothing. Meanwhile, the examination of the witnesses was proceeding, who on the night of the crime had seen the murderer coming from the flat . . . Mr. Prusty, Edward Collins, and Louisa Burt. Prusty was a shortsighted man, Collins a soft youth who seemed reluctant to testify. However, the witness Burt was qviite a different character. Now this young girl, on a dark and rainy September night, in a street with hardly any lights, got one second's glimpse of the criminal. Yet she professed herself able to supply the most exact details of his appearance. I can still see her round, earnest face, as she came gushing; out with her statement.

" 'A man about thirty-five,' said she. Tall, thin and dark, with pale features, straight nose, clean shaven. He wore a check cap, a drab-coloured raincoat, and brown boots.'

"At first, Dale was pleased with this description. However, after the arrest of Mathry, the band played a different tune — for Mathry was neither tall, dark, nor clean shaven, but of medium size, fair-complexioned, and he had a brown moustache. Also, his clothing was quite different. However, Burt was equal to the occasion. She protested she had been confused, had spoken in a hurry when she made her first statement. Quite calmly she shelved the big, clean-shaven character in favour of a shorter man with a moustache. And Collins, who, immediately after the event, had flatly told me he would not be able positively to identify the man now came into line with Burt. The light check cap became a soft dark hat, the raincoat a grey ulster. In short, the description was adjusted to one which, though it was vague, might well have fitted Mathry."

Swann rested again, his pale lips drawn back, as he fought to get his breath.

"The next step was to take these important deponents to view the prisoner. The Chief himself accompanied them, and I was in the party also. Eleven policemen in plain clothes were lined up in a room with Mathry. It's the standard identification parade

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and some think it's a fair test. At any rate, the two witnesses were positive in their identification. Mathry was removed to Wortley, formally charged with the murder of Mona Spurling."

The sick man turned weakly on his side and gazed directly at Paul.

"Yet I still couldn't think that his number was up . . . the case against him was too perfect and I felt that somewhere it must crack. But I hadn't bargained on the advocate who was counsel for the prosecution. You might think that the Chief Constable — honest, dogged Dale — was mainly responsible for what happened to Mathry, but no, no, when it came to the bit, it was this Sprott, this brainy man who really did the trick. He's now Sir Matthew, he's risen near the top of the tree, and hell likely go further, but then he was unknown, and desperately anxious to succeed. The minute I heard him I saw that he meant to hang Mathry.

"Well, it began. The prosecution called all its experts. They didn't call Dr. Tuke, the doctor who had first seen the body. They had, besides the police surgeon, Dobson, a professor named Jenkins, who testified that the Frass razor could have caused the injuries which had proved fatal to the victim. He was not prepared to swear that there were blood stains upon the weapon or on the prisoner's coat, but he had found traces of bodies which might have been mammalian corpuscles. Next came the handwriting expert who swore that the charred note found in the victim's flat was written by Mathry 'in a disguised left hand.' When Collins and Burt went into the box they surpassed themselves — Burt, especially, with her young innocent face and big earnest eyes made a tremendous impression on the jury. She stood there like an angel, and swore: 'That is the identical coat,' and 'That is the very man,' and again — referring to the identity parade —with real pride: 'I was the first to put the finger on him!'

"Then came the speech for the Crown. For three hours Sprott let himself go, without a pause, without a single written note. The words flowed out of his mouth and put a spell upon the court. When he painted the picture of the crime, by God. he laid it on heavy — the guilty man hugging the razor in his pocket, brutally