The Dusky Hour (22 page)

But the colonel was growing suspicious, and Bobby had already sighed gently and put away his notebook again.

“Who is Gwendolene?” asked the colonel.

Surprised, Ena held up the kitten.

“This is Gwendolene,” she said. “Isn't oo, precious?” she asked the kitten. “She got under his feet – Mr. Larson's, I mean – and it was just as much his fault as hers, because he wasn't looking, and if anyone ever looked like murder, he did. If I hadn't screamed he would have kicked her ever so hard – he had his foot up, and when I screamed he looked as if he wanted to kill me instead, and I expect he did, too, only he didn't dare. I picked Gwendolene up and we ran, didn't we, sweet 'ums? I locked my door to feel safe, and I didn't come out till after I had seen him drive away.”

“Miss Moffatt,” said the colonel sternly, “are you accusing Mr. Larson of murder because he was annoyed with your kitten?”

“Oh, no,” she answered, “it was the horrible way he looked. Besides, you remember dad's pistol he's lost and no one knows where it is? Well, that's because Mr. Larson pinched it.”

At this the colonel and Bobby exchanged glances. Here at last seemed evidence that might be of real importance.

“How do you know?” the colonel asked. “Miss Moffatt, please be very careful what you say. A man's life –”

“I suppose he'll be hanged, won't he?” observed Ena meditatively. “They always do murderers, don't they?”

“Why do you say Mr. Larson took your father's pistol?” the colonel repeated.

“I saw him,” said Ena simply. “It was a month ago – the 10th. I know, because I was writing to Uncle Alexander for his birthday and I told him.

“You told him you had seen Mr. Larson taking Mr. Moffatt's pistol?”

“Well, I didn't know what it was at the time,” Ena said. “I went into the library to get some stamps – only don't tell dad, because he's always so stuffy about his stamps if there aren't any when he wants them – and Mr. Larson was there, and he was taking something out of one of the drawers and he saw me and he glared. I didn't see plainly what he had, but it was something bright and hard-looking. I thought it was a flashlight, and I thought it was funny, and I told uncle when I was finishing my letter.”

“Didn't you tell Mr. Moffatt?”

“No-o. Dad was fussing about his old stamps and I knew he suspected me. Besides, I saw the flashlight on the hall table afterwards, so I thought Mr. Larson had put it there and it was all right. But now I just know it was the pistol, and that's why he looked at me the way he did. At the time I thought he was only being horrid because I had caught him at dad's desk, but now I know he was afraid.”

The colonel listened gloomily. If all this meant that the weapon with which the murder had undoubtedly been committed was now identified with Mr. Larson, the fact was certainly of the utmost significance. But could Ena's story be relied on? How would such a tale stand up under cross-examination?

“Why should Mr. Larson want to kill Bennett?” he asked.

“Oh, he hates share-pushers,” Ena explained. “Didn't you know? Mr. Bennett was one, wasn't he? And Mr. Larson's something to do with shares and things, too. Mr. Larson was always saying share-pushers ought to be shot, and so he did, I suppose. I expect they've skinned him some time and he wanted revenge.”

The colonel looked more and more worried. The pistol traced to Larson. Larson uttering threats. The possibility that Larson had suffered financial losses through Bennett!

“Would your uncle be likely to have your letter still?” he asked.

“Oh, rather,” Ena assured him. “Uncle Alexander has every letter anyone has ever written him from the year one. He has them all filed and indexed and all that – stacks of them.”

“I should like to see it,” the colonel remarked. “Could you give me his address?”

Ena provided the address, and, in answer to a casual question Bobby dropped, explained that the kitten incident had only happened two days ago. It was the awful look in Mr. Larson's eyes, Ena explained, that made her understand quite suddenly. She shivered and was a little pale as she described the look he had sent after them as she and the kitten made their escape. After a few more questions the colonel and Bobby took their departure, and in the car the colonel said:

“Well, what do you make of all that?”

“Well, sir,” Bobby answered slowly, “it needs thinking over. Mr. Larson is, of course, one of the possibilities in the case. If we accept Miss Moffatt's story –”

“Yes, but can we?” asked the colonel. “Can we put her in the witness-box to tell a story of that sort? She admits herself she thought at the time it was a flashlight. I dare say Larson did look as if he wanted to kick the kitten across the hall – cats do make some people feel like that. But a look's not evidence. We couldn't even mention it. There's the letter she says she wrote. We'll have to see what she actually said in it. That is, if it's not been destroyed. Larson has an alibi, too, but how strong is it? What's there to prove that cigarette-case hadn't been lying there for days?”

“Reeves says he saw it in Mr. Larson's possession earlier that afternoon.”

“Can we trust Reeves's evidence? As a witness he would be discredited the moment he was asked about his record. Very difficult case. Better sleep on it. Come and see me to-morrow. Ten o'clock. No. I've an appointment; no time to attend to anything just now. Eleven; make it eleven. We shall have to follow it up somehow, but blessed if I know how. Have to talk to Larson again, I suppose.”

Neither did Bobby see his way very clearly. Little good questioning Larson, he thought. Even if Ena's story were true, Larson would simply deny it. Nor was there any proof that Ena's suggestion of previous transactions between Larson and the dead man had any foundation in fact. He was still as undecided as ever when next morning, on his way to keep the appointment the colonel had given him, he saw a tall man waving to him from across the street and recognised Larson himself. A light rain was falling at the time. Bobby was wearing a raincoat and a hat with a brim pulled down to protect his face, but Larson, he noticed, was bare-headed as usual, and had not even an umbrella. When Larson came across to him, Bobby said something about the risk of catching cold, and Larson laughed and said that he had never had a cold since he gave up wearing a hat.

“Try it, sergeant,” he urged.

“Well, I did at one time,” Bobby answered, “and then a fellow tried to palm his own hat off on me one day. In a way that's how I came to join the police, and in uniform, of course, you have to have a helmet, so I got out of the way of going without.”

“Start it again,” urged Mr. Larson. “Still busy with the case of that poor devil who was shot here? Making any progress?”

“Oh, we think so,” Bobby answered. “We may be able to make an arrest soon. I believe the chief constable was thinking of asking if you could come to see him again. There are one or two small points he thinks you might be able to clear up.”

“Delighted, of course,” Larson answered readily, “if there's anything I can say to help. Nasty business. Could I see him now, do you think? Save a special journey from town, perhaps.”

Bobby said he thought that would be a good idea. They proceeded together, accordingly, to the police headquarters, chatting amiably on the way. Bobby asked if Larson had had a good trip from town, and Larson said he had come by train and had had a most disagreeable journey, a woman with half a dozen brats, all sucking peppermints, and with a basketful of vegetables and kippers, having invaded his compartment. He was half humorous, half really indignant, at having been forced to put up with such travelling-companions, and then they reached their destination, where, in response to the message Bobby sent up, they were ushered immediately into the colonel's room. The colonel said how good it was of Mr. Larson to come along, and how lucky it was he happened to be in the town again, and Larson explained he had come to see Mr. Gregson, a leading solicitor in the district.

“Bit of bad luck,” Mr. Larson told them ruefully. “I happened to see a motor accident the other day, and now they've laid violent hands on me for a witness – awful bore. At Winders Green it was. I was passing and saw it all – motor-car and cyclist mix up. Cyclists,” said Mr. Larson feelingly, “are God's own pests on the roads, but this time I'm bound to say the motorist was to blame.”

“Oh, yes,” said the colonel, “there was a report came in. Something about a cat, wasn't there?”

Larson nodded.

“The whole thing turns on the cat, apparently,” he said, smiling. “The cyclist says there was one. The motorist says there wasn't. Unluckily for him I saw it as plainly as ever I saw anything in my life – big animal; a Tom, I should say; black, with white feet. At least, I saw it unless I was suffering from incipient
delirium tremens
, and then it would be rats, not cats, wouldn't it? Anyhow, it seems I shall have to appear in court and solemnly swear there was a cat, a whole cat, and a lot else as well.”

The colonel was listening with great interest. He glanced at Bobby and saw he was listening, too. For the accident at Winders Green had happened on the same day, and almost at the same hour, as that at which the murder had taken place in Battling Copse, and certainly a witness of the accident could not possibly have been anywhere near Battling Copse at the time of the murder. The colonel was fiddling with the report now.

“I don't think your name was mentioned, was it?” he asked.

“In your man's report? No, it wouldn't be,” Larson answered. “I didn't much want to be mixed up in the thing if I could help it – takes time and worry and all that. To tell the truth, I don't think I've quite got over the shock of my own experience. I still dream of it, and this brought the whole thing back so vividly.”

“An accident?” the colonel asked.

“Fellow in a sports car banged right into mine,” Mr. Larson answered. “It was near Winders Green too – some very nasty turnings about there. I had been at Sevens to see Mr. Moffatt and I was driving home. Next thing I knew I was in bed in hospital, with a strange female giving the nurse blue fits.”

“How was that?”

“Police muddle,” explained Larson, chuckling. “Happens sometimes, I suppose. By some extraordinary chance, there was nothing in my pockets to identify me – no cards, letters, anything. Then a policeman had a look at the car and found an envelope addressed to a business pal of mine. They must have gone over that car with a toothbrush. They found it at the bottom of one of the pockets where it must have been lying for months, and jumped to the conclusion it meant me. Then there was some further muddle over the phoning, and finally a poor lady turned up in the full belief she was a widow. When she found a stranger she had never seen before – well, she expressed herself freely.”

“Mistakes will occur,” said the colonel. “When did this happen, do you remember?”

“I remember well enough,” answered Larson grimly. “Made me miss an important appointment for that day – the tenth it was, last month. I believe the man I failed still thinks I fixed it all on purpose to disappoint him.”

The colonel looked at Bobby. This seemed important, for if as a result of this accident – and the truth of Larson's story could easily be tested – his car had been examined so closely by the police soon after he left Sevens, then if he had had any pistol in his possession it would certainly have been found. Ena's story seemed disproved, then, just as by his earlier statement his alibi seemed to receive further confirmation.

“But you don't want to hear about my troubles,” Larson went on smilingly. “I believe you wanted to see me about something?”

“Yes,” the colonel answered. “We are very worried about Mr. Moffatt's pistol. It's missing, you know. We should very much like to get some idea of when it disappeared. Did you ever see it?”

“No, not that I remember, and certainly I should,” answered Larson. He smiled again. “I think I've said as much before. The little Moffatt girl been saying things?”

The colonel started.

“Why do you ask?” he inquired cautiously.

“Oh, I'm definitely in her bad books,” the other answered smilingly. “She called me a horrid man and a murderer the other day. That wretched kitten of hers nearly tripped me up. I felt like scragging the little beast, and I dare say I looked it. The little Moffatt lady was very indignant. I asked if she minded if I broke its neck – not quite all in fun either; I felt like it. She called me a murderer, or words to that effect, and rushed off in a temper. She's got a little temper of her own, that girl.”

“Yes, I've noticed that,” agreed the colonel, thoughtfully feeling his ear.

“I'm not sure,” Larson continued, “that she doesn't suspect me of picking and stealing as well. Moffatt was raising Cain about his stamps having vanished from his desk, and Miss Ena saw me just before alone in the room. I had left my cigarette-case there and I went back for it, and she came in just as I was picking it up. I am sure she thought it was the stamps I was after.”

The colonel glanced again at Bobby. Apparently both matters mentioned by Ena could now be regarded as satisfactorily answered, and he drew a breath of deep relief. He thanked Mr. Larson warmly for the assistance he had given, and the frankness with which he had spoken, and Larson said with a certain hesitation:

“There is another thing I've had on my mind. Did you know –” He hesitated again. He made a deprecatory gesture with his large, well-manicured hands, from which, Bobby noticed, that fine diamond ring of his had vanished – only for evening wear, it was, perhaps, Bobby thought; too valuable for every day. Larson said: “It's just this: did you know Moffatt was being blackmailed?”