Richardson's First Case (14 page)

“Do you mean they seriously thought that he'd killed Aunt Emily?”

“Some of them did, I'm certain. Anyway my revelations weren't too well received, because it knocked them off their perch and forced them to start all over again and nose about for another culprit.”

“So they thought of me,” said Michael grimly.

Nan cut in: “I've been longing to ask you if you overtook your aunt that evening.”

“No, I didn't. I lost her in the crowd.”

“Look here, old man,” said Guy, “you mustn't get on your hind legs with them about bringing you back, because it's all for your own good. There's a funny legal complication about the business. It seems that at the time of their separation, your uncle and aunt both made wills, and he left everything to her provided that she outlived him. Incidentally—and this is where you come in—she left everything to you. You see my point?”

“No, she had nothing to leave.”

“Hadn't she? Even the most brilliant naval mind is a little thick on the subject of the law, and, without offense, I should say yours was thicker than most. The old man was passably well-to-do—at any rate, the estate will relieve our burdened finances in death duties. All that remains after the Chancellor of the Exchequer has had his bite out of it goes to my unworthy shipmate—Michael Sharp—if it can be proved that his aunt outlived her husband, even by five minutes, and so inherited what he had to leave. If I know his majesty's treasury they'll have two bites out of it—one for your aunt and one for you—but there ought to be enough left to pay your mess bills. Now do you see why poor old Morden put you through the hoop this morning? You're an interested witness, from his point of view, and the police have had sad experience of the value to be attached to the evidence of interested witnesses.”

“He thought I was lying, did he?” growled Michael.

“That depends on what you told him.”

“Apart from my evidence nobody but a lunatic would believe that old Catchpool could strangle Aunt Emily; he was a poor-spirited money-grubber, and though he had a temper and could say nasty things it wasn't the kind of temper that would make him do things in a passion. Besides, in his queer way, I believe he was proud of Aunt Emily: she gave him a sort of status that he didn't deserve.”

“I saw an interview with your aunt's servant in one of the papers,” said Nan; “she gave a lurid account of threats she professed to have overheard.”

Michael laughed. “That's Kate Winter all over; she adored my aunt and hated the old man, and none of her stories lost anything in the telling. There's one thing that puzzles me about this will business. Supposing I hadn't seen Aunt Emily at six and they'd decided that she was killed before the old man, does his money go to the Crown?”

“Good Lord, no! It goes to his nephew, a fellow called Reece. Do you know him well?”

“No, we've met a few times, but he was a funny chap—the wouldn't-be-friendly sort. I believe he's a good man of business and looked well after Catchpool's property. The fact that I saw Aunt Emily won't cut much ice, I suppose, unless they get another witness.”

“Heaven only knows how these police minds work. Your story held together all right, I suppose?”

“They didn't seem to think so.”

“Joan will be in directly; she's longing to hear what happened after you left her that evening.”

Michael's face clouded a little. “I think I'd rather tell you two what I told the police: Joan might not quite understand.”

“Full speed ahead! We're listening.”

“W
ELL, AS
I told them at the Yard, I had a sort of football scrum to overtake Aunt Emily, and somehow I missed her. She must have dodged into one of the side streets, or taken a taxi or a bus or something—anyway I hunted the whole neighbourhood for her and had no luck. It must have been half-past six or later when I gave up the hunt. I think that I should have gone back to her flat to wait for her if a bus had not drawn up just where I was; it was going in the direction of my hotel and looked half empty, so I got in and found a seat between two ladies. The conductor came round for the fares, and the lady on my left began arguing with him. I heard her say, ‘It's not my fault, my purse has been stolen and I haven't a penny.' Naturally, I couldn't sit there and hear the conductor sneering at her; I touched him on the arm and said that I'd pay the lady's fare if she'd allow me.”

“Excuse me for interrupting, Mike; was she old and ugly?”

“Well, no, she certainly wasn't old, and as for looks, she'd have passed in a crowd.”

“I thought so. Go on.”

“Mind you, I hadn't so much as looked at her until I paid her fare. Well, we got into conversation and, of course, she was all over me for paying—said that her husband would like to reimburse me. Well, then one thing led to another. I told her that I expected to rejoin the ship at Gib, and she said that she loved Gib; her husband had been quartered there and had just come home. He had had quite a lively time there after the Spanish revolution. He could tell me quite a lot. Then she said, ‘I get off here. Our flat is quite close. You'll really make me very miserable if you won't just come and meet my husband and let him thank you.'”

“And you went with her? My sainted aunt!”

“Well, I had a couple of hours to spare and she was obviously a lady. You would have done just the same, you know you would.”

Nan braced herself for her husband's reply, but all he said was, “Go ahead. Let's hear the worst.”

“Well, it was, as she said, quite close—a big block of flats in a side street. She took me up to the first floor and into a flat furnished with that modern stuff, all metal and leather with ghastly impressionist daubs on the walls. She seemed surprised to find the flat empty, murmured something about going to find her husband and asked me to sit down.”

“And then?” Nan appeared to be deeply interested in the unconventional behaviour of one of her own sex.

“Well, I sat down and waited an interminable time and she didn't come back; there wasn't a sound in the flat except the ticking of the clock, which got on my nerves. At last I got up and called out, ‘I'm afraid I must be going.'”

“How long had you been there?”

“From twenty minutes to half an hour, I suppose. No one answered me, so I let myself out and came away.”

Guy stared at him with his mouth open. “Just came away?”

“Well, what else could I do? The only sound I heard in the building was some sort of domestic row going on in the flat above—apparently two women engaged in a slanging match, but that had nothing to do with my lady. She just vanished.”

“Mike,” said Guy in a tense voice, “did you tell that story at Scotland Yard when you were accounting for your time?”

“Of course I did.”

At this Guy broke down. His laugh, never subdued, went echoing through the room until the tears coursed down his cheeks, and Nan, seeing the indignant flush on Michael's cheek, hastened to call her husband to order. “Guy! How can you!”

“I was thinking of Charles Morden, darling,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Surely there's not another man in his majesty's navy, not another man in London, to whom such an adventure could happen.”

“Why not?” asked Nan.

“Because it tailed off. Nothing happened; no husband; no lady; nothing, except the ticking of a clock, and he asked two hard-boiled police officers to believe it.”

“I shouldn't have told the story at all if that damned policeman friend of yours hadn't dragged it out of me, by making me account for every minute of my time. It was damned impertinence.”

“Oh,” said Nan, “then you only made it up on the spur of the moment.”

Michael flushed again and turned on her hotly. “Every word of it is true; I don't invent stories.”

“No, you don't,” retorted Guy, “and I hope that if you did you'd invent a better one. However, all's well that ends well. You've only to give the address and the police will verify the story.”

“I don't know the address.”

“What!” his audience shouted together.

“Well, it was a foggy night, and there were one or two turnings after the bus stop, and I didn't notice the name of the street.”

“But when you got out of the flat?” suggested the practical Nan. “You must have noticed where you were.”

“I walked quite a good way until I found myself in Oxford Street; then, of course, I knew where I was.”

“Could you find the house again?”

“I don't know that I could. I wish I could find it. I left my umbrella there.”

“And then you went back to your hotel?”

“Yes, there was nothing else to do. I dined, packed, and caught my train.”

“Tell me, Mike, how did they seem to take that story when you told it to them?”

“Well, they didn't say much; they just looked at each other and told me I could go.”

Guy Kennedy became suddenly serious. “Look here, old man, we're sitting calmly here and letting things mess themselves up. I must be up and doing, or there'll be serious trouble.” He had risen.

“What are you going to do, Guy?” asked his wife, who had less confidence in her husband as a man of action than he had in himself. “I'm going down to see Charles Morden and knock some sense into him.”

“Don't do anything rash.”

“Shoot him, you mean? No, I've left my weapon in the usual drawer. Good-bye.” They heard the door of the flat bang behind him.

“Ought I to go too?” asked Michael.

“Certainly not. You'll sit here until Joan appears. Then we'll have tea and be ready to hear Guy's news when he comes back.”

Guy Kennedy learned that Mr. Morden was in his room, but very busy. He sent in his card and was at once admitted.

“They told me you were busy, but they didn't throw me out. I'll be as short as I can, Morden.”

“Sit down.” Morden pushed back the files before him and blinked at his visitor. “You've come about your friend Sharp, of course. We saw him this morning.”

“Yes, he told me, and I suppose, after listening to his story, you put him into the same class as Ananias.”

“Did he tell you what he told us?”

“About the lady on the bus? He did.”

“And did you believe it?”

“Knowing Michael Sharp, I did. If it had been anybody else, well—”

“Exactly. Now I think I should be justified in telling you what has happened since I saw you last. We have found a witness who says that he was actually in Catchpool's shop when the murder was committed. At any rate, that he heard a woman scream and fall on the floor. The skunk ran away and so is of little value to us as a witness, but he did fix the time. It was not later than half-past five. So you see, if he was telling the truth, Sharp could not have seen his aunt alive at six.”

“Your witness may be lying.”

“He may, but when Sharp is asked to account for his time and tells an absurd story, evidently made up on the spur of the moment, one wonders what his motive could have been, unless he knew that he would inherit everything if he could prove that Catchpool died before his wife.”

“I can relieve your mind on that point. He knew nothing about the wills: there I am certain he is speaking the truth, because he's the worst actor that God ever made. You know, Morden, we differ on one point: you don't believe his story; I do. Did he tell you that he had left his umbrella in the woman's flat?”

“He did not. That must have been an afterthought.”

“A very silly sort of afterthought, because it may be by that umbrella that his story will be proved or disproved. I mean to find that woman unless you will do that for me.”

“My dear Kennedy, what do you take me for? It isn't your friend Sharp who is on trial. If we were to start looking for a mysterious female who invited an unknown gentleman to her flat and then bolted and left him there without getting away with anything more valuable than an umbrella, our men would be run off their legs.”

“How does one set about finding mysterious ladies?”

“The least expensive way is to advertise.”

“Good Lord! That I should have to come down to the agony column! It makes my blood run cold.”

Morden had something on his mind. “You say that Sharp left his umbrella in the flat. An umbrella has already cropped up in the evidence.” He began searching in a formidable pile of papers. “Here it is. Two girls in a shop near the scene of Catchpool's accident say that a man called to question them and asked them where Catchpool had been taken and if he was badly injured. Their descriptions of him varied, but both were positive that he was carrying an umbrella.”

“Good Lord! Do you want to make out now that Mike knew that his uncle had been killed?”

“No, my dear fellow. I draw no conclusions at this stage. I'm only telling you how the evidence stands at present.”

“Yes, but I can see that you suspect old Mike in some way, and so I've got to clear him. Now, if I succeed in tracing this mysterious lady and she proves that every word Michael Sharp told you was true, will you own up that you were wrong?”

“I'll do more than that. I'll thank you for helping us out of a difficulty, and I'll believe that he did see his aunt at six o'clock.”

“Well, then, help me to draft that infernal advertisement. ‘Will the lady who allowed a gentleman to pay her bus fare on November 8th, and invited him to her flat—' no, dash it! If I put that in she won't come forward. Here, Morden, you take a hand.”

Between them they concocted the following intriguing contribution to the agony columns of several London dailies.