Suspects—Nine (34 page)

“You mean he wrote that as well?”

Bobby nodded. They heard in the distance the voice of a newspaper seller, chanting his refrain:

“Extry spee-shul. Weeton Hill Murder Sensation— Man charged—Extry spee-shul.”

Both Bobby and Olive remembered that other evening when they had listened to another newspaper seller bringing them the first news of the mystery that had come so close to them both, and to that other newsboy whose different news, though as remote to all appearance as it well could be—since who could have dreamed that the vagaries of foreign exchange would point to the identity of a murderer—had yet in the end given the solution?

Jenny, the little assistant, who had started out on her way home, came running back, full of excitement, a paper in her hand.

“Oo-o-o,” she gasped, “they've arrested Mr. Tamar —oh, do you think it's true?

“I'm afraid there's not much doubt,” Bobby answered,

“Oo-o-o,” said Jenny again. She became quite pale: “Oh, will they hang him?” she gasped.

“He may get a reprieve,” Bobby answered. “I daresay it's likely enough,” and, indeed, that proved to be the case, for though counsel failed to get a verdict of manslaughter on' ‘blinded with passion' grounds, the public mood was sympathetic and the jury added a recommendation to mercy to the ‘guilty' verdict they returned.

Indeed, the rough and often harsh justice of public opinion was inclined to declare that Flora was the really responsible person.

They sent Jenny home but Vicky still lingered, more inclined to talk than was Olive. Vicky asked,

“Was it only noticing about the exchange made you think it was Mr. Tamar?”

“He was always on the list of suspects,” Bobby answered.

“One thing that worried me a good deal, though it wasn't the sort of evidence you could take notice of officially, was the way once when I was talking to him he described the scene just as if he had been there, told how the murderer lay still, waiting for the victim to show over the brow of the hill. ‘That's how it happened, he said, almost as if he knew. It bothered me. Then he said it was five or ten minutes after the delivery of the anonymous letter before Munday brought it to him. Well, how did he know that, unless he had left the thing himself? Munday told me he thought it was Renfield he saw, but I didn't feel too much inclined to believe that, and if he had seen it was really Tamar himself, well, that might explain how he knew so much; as it does, in fact, explain what he went to Weeton Hill for. Then, later on, Tamar seemed relieved to hear the pistol had been found and talked about finger-prints on it. Sounded as though he knew there wouldn't be any and knew the pistol could be traced to some one else. What he really hoped was that the discovery of the pistol would turn suspicion from him and on Renfield. You see, he had a grudge against Renfield, both because he suspected him of trying to flirt with Flora and again over the money question Renfield was worrying about. I don't suppose he expected Renfield to be seriously suspected, most likely he merely thought it was another false trail to worry us; and if it made things awkward for Renfield, all the better. The thing that really bothered most of us about him was that alibi he put forward. It was so clumsy and seemed to depend so much on circumstances he couldn't possibly be sure about, most of our people were inclined to accept it. The natural idea is, if you fake an alibi, you fake it water-tight—or try to. That's generally how we spot the manufactured alibi. It's too complete. This one wasn't. But the more we looked into it, the stronger it seemed to grow. The ten-shilling note with Tamar's figures on it turned up. Actually, Tamar paid it in next day, during the morning, when there's a different staff on duty, when he expected them to be too busy—Saturday morning—to take much notice of a stray motorist buying cigarettes; when, in any case, no inquiries would be made, since it didn't seem to matter who was or wasn't there on Saturday morning, hours after the murder. Tamar had to risk the note not turning up. But it was a fair risk. An offer of a reward was very likely to produce it. If it had been paid into a bank, for example, one of the clerks would almost certainly have noticed it had figures jotted down on it. It did turn up. It had been given in change to a lorry driver who was very pleased to claim the fiver reward, and so there was the proof the note had actually been paid by Tamar as and when he said, proof enough to satisfy any jury not too careful to notice that the ‘when' was a very vague ‘when', covering a good many hours and allowing fully sufficient time for the murder.”

“But there was an attendant, too?” Vicky interposed. “I thought he said he saw Mr. Tamar?”

“Yes,” agreed Bobby. “Tamar had luck there, but I rather think he had calculated on something of the sort. He seems to have known one of the attendants was an ex-convict and generally bad character, and he guessed the fellow might be willing to support his alibi in the hope of favours to come—and perhaps, too, out of a kind of fellow-feeling and to do down the police. A good many crooks are like that. Ready to help each other to down the police on general principles and because one good turn deserves another and may get it some day. Anyhow, the fellow was very dicky about times and now he has broken down altogether under a bit of questioning. I don't suppose the defence will even bother to call him and if they do, it won't help. But if Tamar's luck held there, it crashed badly over the foreign exchange, and over Hitler's choosing that very evening for making one of those genial little speeches of his that do such a lot to help on what our Government calls ‘appeasement'. The night before the exchange had been at the rate of one seven five francs to the pound. That means that a million and a quarter francs were worth about £7,142 17
s
. 6
d
. in English money. But on that Saturday morning the exchange rate opened, after Hitler's speech, one of his mildest by the way, at one seven seven, point seventy-five to the pound and went worse later on. But 177.75 was the figure posted in the city that morning; we have evidence Tamar asked at his bank, where he called to cash a cheque, what the rate was and was given that figure, and it was the figure he used in the calculation on the ten-shilling note he paid in at the coffee stall, near Southampton, later on—works out at about £7,031 15
s
. As it happened, the difference had its importance because Tamar rather laid stress on the limit for the purchase contemplated being £7,000 and while the second figure is near enough for it to be reasonable to go on, the first figure is a good way beyond. Yet it was this second figure that Tamar worked out and talked about, though he could only have arrived at it on the morning after the murder. So the calculation was made after, not before the murder, as Tamar pretended, and that showed his alibi was deliberately faked—and faked beforehand. An innocent man could not have known so early that day that there was any need for an alibi, since nothing was made public till much later.”

“It seems such a tiny point” Olive said.

“In itself, yes,” Bobby agreed. “But it showed the way and then the rest was easy. Everything began to fall into place, like the one word in a crossword puzzle that shows you almost at once what the others must be. Thanks to Martin's evidence, we have been able to trace the car he used. It was a Bayard Seven, hired from a garage on the direct road to the Weeton Hill district. Tamar laid his plans quite carefully. He parked it in the garden of an old empty house he had got an order to view. We've proof of that, too. He drove that far in his own car, changed to the Bayard Seven there, left his own car in the same place, changed again afterwards, and when it seemed safe, returned the Bayard Seven to the garage he had hired it from. He had taken the precaution to give it a false number plate. He didn't expect Martin to provide proof of identity by scratching the fender. It's been discovered, too, that it was near there that he bought a broad-brimmed hat like the one Judy always wears.”

“Do you think he hoped Judy would be taken for the murderer?” Vicky asked.

“No, I don't suppose so, I expect he just thought it would be a good idea to confuse the issues. It was Holland Kent he believed was carrying on the intrigue with Flora. She used to write to Judy, using Holland Kent's name. Judy won't admit it, but it's plain that is what she did. Any envelope seen addressed to Holland Kent would divert attention from Judy. Probably, Judy thought it rather a good joke at first. By-the-way, we've found out where Flora and Holland Kent picnicked that Friday. A tramp saw them disposing of the remnants of their meal by the roadside and as the caviare tin hadn't been quite emptied, he had the benefit of what was left and talked about it afterwards. The caviare made an impression on him, he told every one about it and what funny stuff the toffs ate. The tin can be identified by a dent in it and the tramp was able to say where he found it and to say there had been an empty bottle, too—regrettably empty, that was, though. There were no finger-prints on the caviare tin, been through too many hands, but Holland Kent's were on the bottle which was Château Lafite, too. All that was jolly good work on the part of the Aylesbury police and as Aylesbury is far enough from Weeton Hill, and there's the tramp's evidence as to time, that gave a sound alibi.”

“Do you know how he got Mr, Renfield's pistol?” Vicky asked,

“He seems to have visited Renfield in the one-room flatlet several times. Renfield wanted something done about his reversionary interests and Tamar made that an excuse to go and see him. That provided, him with an opportunity and there are his finger-prints to prove he had meddled with the cardboard box where the pistol was kept. There's Martin's evidence, too, as further proof he possessed the murder weapon. He had the same opportunity to use Renfield's typewriter when he wrote the anonymous letter and we've found a finger-print of his on it as well.”

Bobby paused a moment and added, slowly,

“Odd how little unexpected things can trip a criminal up. If Renfield had not happened to upset a bottle of oil, there would have been much less chance of getting good dabs. If Hitler had not chanced to make that speech that night, and so send the exchange down, and yet not so far down as to be noticeable, then Tamar's fatal blunder in his calculation would not have happened, either. Probably, Munday saw him leave the anonymous letter himself on the night of the cocktail party, wondered what was up, opened and read it on the sly, and either thought he would have a shot at pocketing the hundred pounds himself or else merely thought he would like to know what was going on, and so lost his life through his greed, or his curiosity, or the two combined. I suppose he told me it was Renfield he saw because he thought he would play up to his master until, at least, he knew more. I think it is quite certain Martin's attempts at pumping him had already made him curious. In fact, Martin seems to have put every one on the alert. In a way, it was Martin who started the ball rolling—or it might be fairer to say nothing might have happened, or, at any rate, it might all have happened quite differently, if Lady Alice hadn't employed him to make inquiries, or if he had been a little less clumsy in going to work. Lady Alice will have to give evidence and I must say I shan't be sorry if counsel gives her a bad time. She deserves it.”

“If you ask me,” said Vicky, dreamily reminiscent, “it's counsel who'll have the bad time. Trust Lady Alice to give as good as she gets and then some.”

“I suppose she's got her excuse,” Bobby agreed. “She can say her only motive was to save a youngster whose life she thought Flora was ruining. Flora will have a bad time, though, with counsel making suggestions, and the judge pointing out blandly that this is not a court of morals.”

“Not she,” said Vicky with- conviction, “she'll twist the whole lot round her little finger. Watch her. She'll—”

She paused, reflecting. An idea had evidently struck her. A light came into her eyes. Olive exclaimed,

“Vicky, don't you dare think of selling her a new hat.”

“Darling, of course not,” agreed Vicky, meekly, “but she will need one, won't she? and it's got to come from somewhere, and there's one just come in—”

“Vicky,” said Olive, nearly crying, “Vicky, if you do, I'll... I'll never speak to you again.”

“Very well, darling, I won't, really I won't,” Vicky promised, but with a sigh, a lingering sigh, for, after all, is not ‘Business as Usual' a famous phrase of much authority?

“It's, Holland Kent will come off the worst,” Bobby remarked, a forecast that, proved exceedingly accurate. “New hats won't help him one scrap. No sex appeal to count. There's a story he and Flora are meaning to go off together to Hollywood. Kent means to put money in films. Thinks films are gold mines. So they are—for the people who get out the money the other fellow puts in. He'll be lucky if he doesn't lose all he has, and all Flora's, too, if she lets him.”

“I suppose she'll have to have him now,” Vicky remarked. “No one else left. If they go to America, she'll be able to get a divorce there. Desertion or something. That is, if he's only sent to prison. It was Holland Kent Mr. Tamar suspected all the time, wasn't it?”

“Oh, yes, that's quite plain,” Bobby answered. “Tamar thought he was losing his wife and the thought was more than he could stand. That's the line the defence will take. They'll put it he had no desire or intention to kill Munday, didn't know it was Munday, so it wasn't murder, only manslaughter. And they'll say the mistake is proof of his agitation and his confused state of mind in mistaking Munday for Holland Kent, who, he believed, was his wife's lover and present for a clandestine meeting with her. He never had any real suspicion of Judy. Flora had, switched his suspicions to Holland Kent very effectively—a little too effectively for that matter. In point, of fact, Judy never really cared twopence for her—that was part of his attractiveness—and after he met Miss Maddox his one idea was to break with her. Only, the more he tried, the more she hung on, and the more she used Holland Kent, both as a blind to keep her husband off the truth and, also, to try to make Judy jealous and bring him back to her. Martin found out a lot and if only he had told us what he knew, things would have cleared up a lot sooner. But his only idea was to make something for himself on the side. Got more than he expected. Lady Alice is not a safe person to play with and she must have laid on that riding whip with a whole heap of goodwill.”