Calamity in Kent, A British Library Crime Classic (14 page)

“It is your duty to tell it, sir,” Shelley said sternly. “You may well be helping to bring a murderer to justice if you let me know exactly what happened.”

“That's true,” Montrose said. “Well, Margerison was engaged in the metal market. He worked as a buyer for a firm dealing largely in the precious metals—particularly gold and platinum.”

“Quite so.” Not by so much as the blink of an eyelid did Shelley reveal that he felt any surprise at this, though the information was, of course, totally unexpected.

“Some of the precious metals are rather difficult to get hold of in any quantity, and it so happened that Tilsley had some unexpected sources of supply. His prices were high, but he could let us have quantities of gold and platinum when it was not easy to buy them on the open market.”

“How long had this been going on?” Shelley asked.

“Two or three years, I should think,” Montrose said. “I had been involved in it only for about eighteen months or so.”

“And, if I may ask, sir, what was your function in it? Where, if I may put it so, did you come in?”

“I was merely a sleeping partner. My interest in the thing was purely financial. I had known Margerison for years, and he came to me a year or eighteen months ago, pointed out that he had this unexpected source of supply of these metals, and then said that he was a little short of capital. He suggested that I should back him, and that, as a result, there would be a good return for any fluid capital which I might have available. It so happened that I had between two and three thousand pounds available—the nationalisation of coal had thrown some of my investments back to me, so to speak—and I lent it to him.”

“Results satisfactory, sir?” asked Shelley with a smile.

“Oh, quite; the return was more than one could possibly have got in the normal course of investment. Naturally, there were occasions when I felt doubtful, and I'm wondering at this moment just how I stand. I'm not at all sure where the cash is now, in view of poor Margerison's death.”

“It had to be fluid capital, I think you said, sir?” Shelley remarked.

“Yes. You see, Tilsley always insisted on being paid in notes. He would not take a cheque. That is the only point that made me a trifle dubious about the whole thing. I wondered if there was some infringement of the law somewhere. One always feels suspicious, I think, of the man who wants to be paid in cash for the sort of thing that would normally be paid for by a cheque. And this is particularly true of things like precious metals, where a comparatively small bulk of the material may well be worth some hundreds of pounds.”

This was reasonable enough. I was quite favourably impressed by this man Montrose, and I thought that Shelley was equally so. Indeed, the fellow appeared to radiate simple honesty—one of the few among the many people we had met in this case who did not seem to have anything to hide, and who seemed to be in every way open and above board.

Shelley had little more to say to him, and in a few minutes we were strolling down the road once more. Shelley turned to me with some interest, I thought.

“Well, what's your opinion, Jimmy?” he said.

“My opinion?” I repeated.

“Yes; your opinion of our friend Montrose.”

“Seems sensible enough, and straightforward enough, too,” I said.

“I'm inclined to agree with you,” Shelley said. “But there's one very odd thing, you know.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“Well, I can't see any straightforward connection between a man who deals in spare parts for cars and a man who deals in gold and platinum. And yet it seems that our Mr. Tilsley was both of those, rolled into one. It's odd.” Shelley relapsed into a thoughtful silence.

“Unless they were both stolen,” I said.

“Yes, but that, somehow, doesn't ring quite true,” said Shelley. “A thief, like other crooks, tends to be in a way a specialist. I don't mean to say that he wouldn't steal anything stealable; but there is nothing in common between motor parts and precious metals. They wouldn't be handled by means of the same technique, if you know what I mean. Still, that's one of life's little oddities, and no doubt it will be settled at a later stage in the case. If we knew the solution of that puzzle just now we might, I think, be somewhere near the solution of the whole affair—of the murder, I mean. Still, we don't know it, Jimmy, and we shall just have to go on plugging away until we do. I only hope that we shan't take too long over the job, or there may be some even more nasty consequences.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Our friend the murderer has already dealt with two victims,” Shelley said in solemn tones. “In other words, he has put his head pretty effectively into the noose if we are able to lay our hands on him.”

“True enough,” I agreed.

“And if he thinks that another murder will make him safe, then you can bet your boots that murder will be committed,” Shelley said. “So you'd better look out, Jimmy!”

There was a grin on Shelley's face as he said this, and a tone of gentle bantering in his voice. But when I thought of the banner headlines in
The Daily Wire,
and the fact that my name was going to appear each day as the well-known criminologist who was investigating the affair, I felt more than a trifle uncomfortable.

Chapter XVI

In Which I Talk to the Liftman

It seemed, for the moment, as if we had come to a dead end in our investigations. I knew that to get any really fresh information I should have to await the collation of the material that Shelley was getting from Scotland Yard. Only thus could I hope to get hold of new stuff.

But now that I was fairly launched on my career as a special investigator for the Press I could not bear the thought of inaction. Only a couple of days before I had been a convalescent, lazing away a few weeks on the Kentish coast. But thought of returning to that status now seemed to me to be hopeless. I had been plunged into such exciting events that to get back to the old routine of meals under the eagle eye of Mrs. Cecil, walks on the promenade, and an occasional decorous bathe seemed to me to be the most completely feeble way of getting on with life. I wanted to feel myself involved in uncovering facts, revealing unexpected connections between the people in the case, and finding out what I could do.

And Shelley's warning had some influence on me as well. I had no intention of giving any murderer a sitting target. But it was true enough that I was in some danger, especially if the murderer thought that I might be revealing something of what he was doing. The sooner the man was caught the sooner I should be safe. Thus my professional interest was reinforced by the personal interest of my own safety.

Yet I did not see what more I could do. Shelley had not suggested anything further that I could carry out in the way of investigations—and I knew that I had now established myself well enough in his confidence to be asked to do anything which I could. It was thus clear enough that there was nothing that he considered could usefully be given to me to do at the moment. Yet, as I've said, I was not content. I wanted to do something, even though I wasn't sure what it was.

I sat on the old familiar seat on the promenade. I cast my mind over all that had happened in the case. I wondered who there was who might be able to help. Naturally, sooner or later we should have to see how the death of Margerison had affected all the odd people who had come into the case earlier on. But meanwhile I thought that there must be someone who had not been as fully investigated as probably would pay.

At the back of my mind, like the nag of an aching tooth, was the thought that there was someone whose background had not been looked into as much as it should have been. Then I recalled who it was. Of course! Aloysius Bender. I had not spoken to him much since the second murder. Everything had happened in such a rush, Shelley had come on the scene so swiftly, that, apart from the first words with him when Margerison's body had been discovered, I had had no converse with the liftman.

I remembered that I had a note of the man's address somewhere. Since he was not working the lift (it was still closed, by police instructions), it was highly probable that he was at home. I remembered jotting down his address on the back of an envelope during the early stages of the case. I turned out the contents of my breast pocket, and found the envelope. There it was: “Aloysius Bender, 196 Peter Street.” I wondered where Peter Street was. Then I remembered. The Broadgate Parish Council, for the benefit of visitors, had erected further along the promenade a map of the town. If I had a look at that I should be able to spot the street.

I strolled along to the big oak frame that contained the map. At first I found it difficult to find Peter Street, but eventually spotted it. It was a narrow, twisting alleyway which straggled from one side of Broadgate to the other, running roughly parallel to the sea front, about half a mile up the hill that led inland from the sea.

It took me only about ten minutes to find the place. I soon spotted 196. It was an unsavoury-looking cottage. I rapped on the door with my knuckles, since no bell or knocker was anywhere visible. A slatternly-looking woman opened the door and greeted me with a stony glare.

“Yes?” she snapped.

“Does Mr. Bender live here?” I asked.

“He does. But he's out.”

“Do you know where I might be able to find him?” I said. “It's rather urgent.”

“Where would you find him, but in the boozer?” she snapped back at me.

“Which one?” I asked.

“Out on the High Street. Place called the Seven Bells. He'll be swilling in the public bar,” she said, and slammed the door loudly in my face. I wondered if this was Mrs. Bender, venting on me her wrath at the fact that her spouse was drinking. Then I thought that this was not very likely. If this woman had any real power over Bender she would not be the sort to allow him to go drinking at all. She was more likely his landlady, annoyed because money was going in beer which should have been devoted to paying her rent.

Still, I made my way to the High Street, where I soon saw the Seven Bells. It was a quiet little pub, not unlike the sort of place that must have made Broadgate attractive in Edwardian days, before the advent of chain stores and char-a-bancs introduced the ordinary Londoner to the Kent Coast as “London by the sea.” The saloon bar entrance was on the main street, and there was an arrow painted on the front, pointing down a side alley and indicating that the public bar was tucked away there.

As I strolled in, I soon saw my friend Bender. He was seated on a wooden form against the wall, propped up and with a pint of bitter on the table in front of him. The place could not have been open more than half an hour (I was a bit hazy about the times of opening in Broadgate), but it seemed that Bender must have been going the pace pretty well. There was a glazed expression about his eyes that suggested he had already imbibed a few pints—unless the beer was a good deal stronger than it usually is in these degenerate days.

I bought myself a pint and made my way to his side.

“Good morning, Mr. Bender,” I said. “Trying to drown your sorrows, eh?”

He squinted at me, obviously finding some difficulty in focussing his eyes.

“Oh, it's you, Mr. London,” he said at last.

“That's so. Here's good hunting to Scotland Yard,” I said, raising my tankard and taking a sip.

“D'you think that they'll find him?” Bender said.

“Find who?” I asked.

“The man who's been killing people in my lift,” he replied. “After all, it'll never do if this goes on. The council'll shut the lift down altogether if it does.”

He chuckled in a drunken, almost obscene manner, as if he thought this was a witticism of the most extreme brilliance. I thought that his condition was really a lucky break for me. If he really had much knowledge of what was going on; if he had any kind of information as to the man who was committing these murders, if, even, he had any inkling as to how they had been committed, he was now in a very suitable condition to be persuaded to unburden himself of his weight of knowledge.

“It would never do if that happened,” I said. “You'd be out of a job, wouldn't you?”

He leaned forward over the table, an untidy lock of his red hair dangling over his eye. He put a dirty forefinger alongside his nose, and winked meaningfully.

“I'll never be out of a job, Mr. London,” he said.

“No?” I said. “And why not?”

“Because I've got influential friends,” he answered, stumbling somewhat over the difficult adjective. “They won't let poor old Bender starve.”

This was interesting. It might be mere idle boasting, however, I thought. I didn't quite know how to get out of him the information that I was after. I now had him in an affable mood, and I didn't want to say anything that would make him in any way suspicious. I felt tolerably sure that if I aroused his suspicions in any way—if I made him think that I was trying in any way to ferret out information—he would shut up like an oyster, and the chance of getting hold of something useful would at once be gone, and quite likely gone for ever.

And there was something about Bender's manner which suggested that he had some very useful information, a suggestion of infinite knowledge. Of course, I knew that this might be mere drunken fantasy; but at the same time it was possible that there was a genuine foundation for it. The position was ticklish in the extreme. I wished that Shelley had been there to advise me how to tackle it. But then it was quite likely that, given the presence of Shelley, the man would have had nothing at all to say. After all, a newspaperman is not a policeman. And to a suspiciously-minded individual a policeman is a kind of licensed Nosey Parker to be avoided at all costs.

“So you know something, do you, Mr. Bender?” I said, trying to make my voice as pleadingly knowing as possible. I thought that the confidential air was what was most likely to go down in Aloysius Bender's present condition.

“I know more than most people think,” he said, with a revolting grimace that was, I imagined, meant to be a knowing wink.

“I'm sure of that,” I said.

“In fact, Mr. London, strictly between ourselves, I'm not sure that I'm not the most important person in the whole thing.” He looked immensely satisfied with himself. “If the police knew all that I know…well, they'd know a lot more than they do just now.”

This was intensely irritating to me. These vague hints were all very well. They might mean a lot, or they might mean nothing at all. It was totally impossible, without something more definite in the way of statement, for me to say whether Bender really knew anything about the mystery.

“And what do you know, Mr. Bender?” I asked.

“Ah, that would be telling!” he exclaimed, with another of his horrible grimaces.

“My paper would make it worth your while, you know, if you told us anything that was really exclusive,” I said. “You know what a scoop is, don't you?”

“A scoop?” He looked puzzled. “Oh, you mean when one paper gets in ahead of all the others, gets hold of some news that the others don't know anything about.”

“That's it.”

He grinned. “And what sort of scoop do you think might come out of this case?” he said.

“Well,” I temporised. This was the most ticklish spot in a very ticklish conversation, I thought. “You have been telling me that you've got some special knowledge,” I said. “If that knowledge is as special as you seem to think, my paper would, I know, be prepared to pay good money for it.”

“Would they?” I thought that there was a gleam of cupidity in the man's eye. The suggestion that there was good money in the information which he had at his disposal seemed to be coming to him as a new idea. For a few moments I thought that I really had got hold of something worth while. Then the gleam in his eye appeared to fade.

“But,” he said, looking immensely knowing, “there's a thing called libel, isn't there?”

“What of it?” I asked.

“Well, your paper wouldn't pay for information that might lead somebody to say they'd been libelled, if you printed it,” he objected. I wondered if I had over-estimated the state of the man's drunkenness. This seemed to be a very sober argument. Still, now that I had gone so far, it was more or less impossible for me to withdraw.

“The libel attitude does complicate things a bit,” I admitted. “But still, you can't libel a man by telling the truth about him, you know. And I suppose that you wouldn't find any difficulty in proving the truth of what you know.”

“I don't know.” For the first time during the curious interview Bender's attitude of certainty and knowingness seemed to desert him. “You can know a lot of things about a man without being able to prove it.”

“But can't you give me some sort of idea of what it is that you could tell?” I pressed him. “After all, this isn't a matter of a cross-word puzzle. This is a murder case; a serious matter. If you've got any sort of information that might lead to the discovery of the murderer it is, after all, your duty to pass on to the police what you know. It might well prevent more murders, after all.”

His eyes gleamed with malice. “You mean that you think there may be more murders,” he said. There was a gloating attitude about the man, something almost ghoulish, which I much disliked.

“There might,” I agreed. “After all, if a man has done two murders, he'll have nothing to lose by committing more—especially if he thinks that other murders may mean the death of those who might get him convicted of the first ones. Why”—and here a new method of attack occurred to me—“you might even be in danger yourself, if this knowledge of yours is as important and valuable as you think it is. The murderer presumably knows that you have it; you haven't shared your knowledge with anyone, and if you were killed it would never get known to anybody. The murderer might take that line. If he did so, then he would see that killing you would at once eliminate any chance that you might give him away to the police.”

I thought that this threat would be likely to cast fear into his heart, but it seemed to make no impression at all. Bender merely leered at me in a drunken fashion, and said: “He won't kill me, oh no! I know too much.”

“But that's the very reason why he might kill you,” I argued with some irritation and heat. “The fact that you know such a lot is the very reason why he would be likely to put you out of the way.”

But he wagged his head with annoying confidence. I saw that he was in what I took to be a condition that I could only describe as of alcoholic stupidity. Still, I thought that I would have one last effort at getting some information out of him. After all, even though he may have had too big an idea of the value of his information, I thought it was as well to see what it was that he knew.

“Can't you give me some idea of what your knowledge is, Mr. Bender?” I said. “Don't mention any names, but just give me an idea of what you have been hinting at this morning.”

He grinned. “It's the keys,” he said.

“The keys?” I was puzzled.

“The keys to the locks of the lift,” he explained.