Crow's Inn Tragedy (10 page)

“I know.” Inspector Furnival stroked his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully. “But why should Thompson, having robbed his master systematically for years, suddenly make up his mind to murder him? For he didn't have the rubber gloves and the chloroform by accident you know, sir.”

“Obviously not.” Mr. Steadman studied his finger nails in silence for a minute, then he looked up suddenly. “Inspector, to my mind absolute frankness is always best. Now, we do not know that Thompson went to Mr. Bechcombe's room at all on the morning of the murder. But there is another whose name is being freely canvassed who certainly did go to the room.”

“Ay, Mr. Tony Collyer,” the inspector said, frowning as he looked over his notes again. “The obvious suspect. Motive and opportunity—neither lacking. But here the question of premeditation comes in again. Young Collyer would not have known he would have the excellent opportunity that really did occur. Would he have come on chance provided with chloroform and rubber gloves? Would he not have fixed up an opportunity when he could have been certain of finding Mr. Bechcombe in? And also when his fiancée, Miss Cecily Hoyle, was out of the way? Then, when he did put his rubber gloves on is a question. According to Miss Hoyle's testimony he had not got them on when she left him. He could hardly bring them out while Mr. Bechcombe was talking to him. No, so far as I can see nothing conclusive with regard to either of these two is to be found, Mr. Steadman. What do you think yourself?”

“Personally I shall find it always a very difficult matter to believe Tony Collyer guilty, strong though the evidence seems against him,” Mr. Steadman said frankly. “Thompson, I must confess, seems a very different proposition. Then we must remember the third person in the case, the lady of the white gloves.”

“The owner of the white glove did not strangle Mr. Bechcombe,” Inspector Furnival said positively. “Though she may have been an accomplice. The experts' evidence decided that the fingers of the hand that killed Mr. Bechcombe were considerably too large to have gone into that white glove.”

“So that's that!” said the barrister. “Well, it is a curious case. It seemed bristling with clues at first. And yet they all seem to lead nowhere.”

“One of them will in time, though,” the inspector remarked confidently. “The thread is in our hands right enough, Mr. Steadman. We shall find the other end before long.”

“You don't mean—” the barrister was beginning when there was an interruption.

There was a knock at the door. Mr. Steadman put up his pince-nez as the inspector opened the door. To their surprise Aubrey Todmarsh stood in the passage. He stepped inside, his face paling as he glanced round the room in which his uncle had met his death.

“Ugh!” He shivered. “There is a terrible atmosphere about this room, inspector. Even if one did not know it, I think one would unconsciously sense the fact that some horrible crime had been committed here.”

“Um, I am not much of a believer in that sort of thing,” Mr. Steadman answered. “It is easy enough to sense crime, as you call it, when you know that it has been committed.”

Aubrey shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, I don't know. You may be right, but I shall stick to my convictions. There are subtler emotions that cannot be shared by anyone. But I am here on business to-day. One of my men, my most trusted man—Hopkins by name—has been doing some work in the East End up by the docks. He met with a man whom he believes to have been Thompson.”

“When?” Mr. Steadman questioned sharply.

“Two days ago.”

“Then why didn't he speak out sooner?”

“He did not see any description of Thompson until this morning. Then he saw one outside a police-station and he remembered.”

“Remembered what?”

“This man,” Aubrey responded impatiently. “A man that answered to Thompson's description. He came down to the docks and tried to get a job on some distant cargo boat. Said he could do anything; but Hopkins noticed that his hands were smooth and carefully manicured. Like a gentleman's hands, Hopkins described them.”

“Did he get his job on the cargo boat?”

“Hopkins thinks that he did, or, at any rate, if not that he managed to get taken as a passenger. He went off somewhere.”

“Where was the cargo boat bound for?” Mr. Steadman seemed more interested than the inspector who was making notes in a desultory fashion.

Aubrey shook his head.

“Hopkins doesn't know. You see he had no particular reason to notice anything about the man. He would not have done so at all but for the hands, I think.”

“You said just now that Hopkins recognized him from the description when he saw it,” Mr. Steadman pursued. “I must say I thought it delightfully vague. A study in negatives, I should call it.”

“It wasn't very definite, of course. And Hopkins may have been entirely mistaken. But he said he particularly noticed the short brown beard and the defective teeth.”

“Um!” Mr. Steadman stuck his hands in his pockets. “I am inclined to think Hopkins' identification a flight of the imagination. The police-station description tells what Thompson was like when he left here. I should look out for a clean-shaven man with regular teeth now.”

Todmarsh did not look pleased.

“I suppose I am particularly stupid, but I really fail to understand why the police should circulate a description when they want something entirely opposite.”

“My dear man, you don't imagine that a man who could hide his traces as Thompson did would be foolish enough to leave his personal appearance unprovided for? No. We must have every cargo boat that left the docks overhauled at its first stopping-place, but I don't fancy we shall find Thompson on any of them.”

“Well, he has managed to get away somehow, and I thought you might be glad to hear of something that is a possible clue,” Todmarsh said sulkily.

At this moment the telephone bell, Mr. Luke Bechcombe's own telephone bell, rang sharply. Todmarsh stopped and started violently, staring at the telephone as if he expected to see his uncle answer it.

The inspector took up the receiver; the other men watched him breathlessly.

“Yes, yes, Inspector Furnival speaking,” they heard him say. “Yes, I will be with you as soon as it is possible. Detain her at all hazards until I come.”

He rang off and turned.

“What do you think that was?”

“Thompson caught at the docks,” Aubrey Todmarsh suggested.

Mr. Steadman said nothing, but a faint smile crossed his lips as he glanced at the inspector.

“The message is that a lady is at Scotland Yard asking to see the official who is in charge of the Bechcombe case,” Inspector Furnival said, glancing from one to the other of his auditors as if to note the effect of his words on them. “A lady, who refused to give her name, but who says that she saw the late Mr. Luke Bechcombe on the day of his death.”

His words had the force of a bombshell thrown between the others.

Aubrey Todmarsh did not speak, but his face turned visibly whiter. He moistened his lips with his tongue. Even the impassive Mr. Steadman started violently.

“The lady of the glove!” he exclaimed.

The inspector caught up his hat.

“I don't know. I must ascertain without delay, Mr. Steadman.”

Dismissing his taxi at the Archway, Inspector Furnival made the best of his way to his office. Outside a man was standing. He touched his forehead respectfully.

“Glad to see you, sir. The lady has just been to the door to say she can't wait more than five minutes longer.”

The inspector paused.

“What is her name, Jones?”

The man shook his head.

“She wouldn't give one, sir. She said her business was with the detective in charge of the Bechcombe case, and with him alone. I was on tenterhooks all the time, sir, fearing that she would be gone before you came.”

The inspector nodded and went on.

He turned the handle of his door quietly and entered the room as quickly and noiselessly as possible. If he had hoped to surprise his visitor, however, he found himself disappointed.

She was standing immediately opposite the door with her back to the window. She did not wait for him to speak.

“Are you in charge of the Bechcombe case?” she demanded, and he noticed that her voice was powerful and rather hard in tone.

The inspector glanced keenly at her as he walked to the chair behind his office table. Standing thus with her back to the light he could see little of his visitor's face, which was also concealed by the hat which was crushed down upon her forehead and overshadowed by an uncurled feather mount. But he could tell that she was fashionably gowned, that the furs she had thrown back from her shoulders were costly.

He answered her question and asked another.

“I am Inspector Furnival, and I am inquiring into the circumstances of Mr. Bechcombe's death. May I ask why you want to know?”

His interlocutor took a few steps forward, clasping her hands nervously together.

“You know that a white glove was found by Mr. Bechcombe's desk?”

“Yes.”

“It was my glove. I left it there!”

The inspector did not speak for a minute. He unlocked a drawer and took out an official-looking notebook.

“Your name and address, madam?”

“Is that necessary?” There was a quiver in the clear tones. “I have told you that I was there—that the glove is mine. Is not that enough?”

“Scarcely, madam. But”—waiving the subject of the name for a moment—“why have you not spoken before?”

“I didn't hear at first.” She hesitated a moment, her foot tapping the floor impatiently.

And now she was nearer to him he could see that her make-up was extensive, that complexion and eyes owed much of their brilliancy to art, and that the red-gold hair probably came off entirely. But it was a handsome face, though not that of a woman in her first youth. The features, though large, were well formed, and the big blue eyes would have been more beautiful without the black lines with which they were embellished.

“I don't read the papers much, at least only the society news and about the theatres—never murders or horrors of that kind, and it was not until I heard some people talking about it, and they mentioned Mr. Bechcombe's name, that I knew what had happened. I did not realize at first that it—the murder had taken place on the very day on which I had been to the office, and that it was my glove that had been found beside the desk. Even then I made up my mind not to speak out if I could help it. Mr. Bechcombe was alive and well when I saw him. I couldn't tell you anything about the murder. And I couldn't have my name mixed up in a murder trial, or let the papers, or certain—er—people get to know what I had been doing at Mr. Bechcombe's office.”

“Then why have you come to us now?”

“Because I thought, if I didn't tell you, you would be sure to find out,” was the candid reply. “And—and if I came myself I thought you might call me Madame X, or something like that. They do, you know, and then perhaps—er—people might never know.”

The inspector smiled.

“I am afraid you are too well known and the illustrated papers are too ubiquitous for that, Mrs. Carnthwacke.”

She emitted a slight scream.

“Oh! How did you know?”

The inspector's smile became more apparent.

“I was a great admirer of Miss Bella Laymond on the Variety stage. I had the pleasure of ‘assisting' at her marriage with the American millionaire, Cyril B. Carnthwacke—that is to say, I was passing a fashionable church, saw a large waiting crowd, and was lucky enough to get in the first rank and obtain a good view of the beautiful bride. I could not help remembering a face like that, Mrs. Carnthwacke. And now I want you to forget that I am a detective, and just think that I am a friend who is anxious to help you, and tell me all the story of your visit to Mr. Bechcombe.”

He pushed forward a chair as he spoke.

She looked from it to him undecidedly for a minute. Then, as if coming to a sudden resolution, she sat down and pulled the chair nearer to his desk.

“You promise not to tell my—husband what I am going to tell you?”

“I promise,” the inspector said reassuringly. “Now, first please, why did you come to Luke Bechcombe's office on the day of his death?”

“Well, I dare say you know my husband is very rich?”

The inspector nodded. Cyril B. Carnthwacke's name and his millions were well known to the man in the street.

“When we were married he gave the most gorgeous jewels,” Mrs. Carnthwacke went on. “And he made me an enormous allowance. Americans are always generous—bless you, I thought I was going to have the time of my life. But I—I had never been rich. Even when I got on on the stage and had a big salary I was always in debt. I suppose I am extravagant by nature. Anyway, when I was married it seemed to me that I had an inexhaustible store to fall back upon. I spent money like water with the result that after a time I had to go for more to my husband. He gave it to me, but I could see that he was astonished and displeased. Still, I could not change my nature. I gambled at cards, on the racecourse, on the Stock Exchange, and I staked high to give myself a new excitement. Sometimes I won, but more often I lost and my husband helped me again and again. But more and more I could see I was disappointing him. At last he told me that he would pay no more for me; he hated and mistrusted all gambling and I must make my huge allowance do. I couldn't—I mean I couldn't give up gambling. It was in my blood. And just as I was in a horrible hole the worst happened. A—a man who had been my lover years ago began to blackmail me. I gave him all I could but nothing satisfied him.” She stopped and passed a tiny lace-trimmed handkerchief over her lips.

“Why did you not tell your husband?” the inspector inquired. “I guess Mr. Carnthwacke would have settled him pretty soon.”