Who Pays the Piper? (25 page)

Presently the two men went round to the back, as the motor-cyclist had done. Like him they saw the lighted bedroom window, and like him they presently found the back door key, but not until they had rapped and called, and been answered only by the silence. As they came up the stair, the silence warned them. No house with a lighted window should be as still as this.

Frank Abbott led the way to the second door on the left, knocked upon it, and, answered only by that warning silence, threw it suddenly open. The smell of spilled brandy hung upon the close air. There was a half-packed suit-case on the bed, an untidy muddle everywhere—a coat hanging over a chair, a hat on the chest of drawers beside the empty brandy bottle. And, face downwards in the corner beyond the fireplace, Miss Cora de Lisle with the back of her head smashed in. The poker which had quite obviously been used to smash it had been laid tidily back upon the hearth.

Inspector Lamb stopped to feel for a non-existent pulse. The wrist he touched was limp and warm. He straightened up, his rosy face hard and set.

“It's only just happened—she's warm. Cut round to the station and tell them—and hurry.”

Frank Abbott hurried, and as he went, and made his report, and came again, and the whole machinery which waits on murder clanked into action, his thoughts raced and swirled. When the Ledlington Inspector and his men had trooped into the little crowded room he touched Inspector Lamb on the arm.

“If I could speak to you, sir——” His tone was urgent.

Lamb said, “Presently.” But the urgency of the tone stayed with him, and in what he himself would have called ‘half no time' he came out upon the narrow landing and said,

“Well, what is it?”

“We've got to get back, sir—leave them to it and get back. The murderer came from King's Bourne, and if we go straight back we'll have a decent chance of getting him.”

“King's Bourne?”

Frank Abbott's face was more nearly eager than the Inspector had ever seen it.

“Yes—yes! There isn't a minute to lose! Let the locals get on with the photographs and the fingerprints this end, but we've got to get back. There's something I didn't tell you—I didn't think it important then. But we must get back. I'll tell you as we go.”

Inspector Lamb gazed imperturbably. Something about this case seemed to have stirred young Frank right up. It wouldn't do him any harm either. In a slow and ruminating voice he remarked that if that was the way of it, he would just have a word with Inspector Grey, and Frank had better be starting the car.

They cleared the narrow exit from Gladstone Villas and came out by this way and that to the comparative quiet of a long road running between ribbon edgings of small twinkling houses and their attendant lampposts to the dark, silent country beyond.

Frank Abbott began to speak, taking up his own last words and repeating them as if there had been no interval of sound, silence and suspense.

“There's something I didn't tell you—I didn't think it important. When I went to shut the window in the study after we'd finished with that girl, the door clicked—the far door, not the one behind you. I think there was someone there with the door ajar. I think he had been there most of the time listening, and when I shut the window the door clicked to. He may have shut it, or it may have shut itself because he wasn't there any more to hold it. You saw me go out of the room. I went through to the hall, and saw Raby coming out of the dining-room. He said he'd been making up the fire, and I said, ‘Where's Robert?'” Frank Abbott paused and went on again. The break and the even repetition which followed were curiously mechanical—the needle lifted from a gramophone record and set down again to reproduce a phrase. “I said, ‘Where's Robert?' And he said, ‘Robert's just stepped out to the post'.”

“Robert?” The Inspector's bulk shifted. His large face turned. “Here, what's this? Sounds nonsense to me.”

“We met a motor-cyclist a little way back from here as we came in. Remember?”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“Robert's got a motor-bicycle. Did you know?”

“What's that—a motor-bike? Are you sure?”

“Oh, quite. I saw it this morning. He keeps it in one of those sheds round the yard. The Doris girl told me all about it. Robert's grandmother left him a legacy, and he bought an aged Douglas. He's got a girl over at Ledcott, Mary Leeson by name, and he can get over in ten minutes any time. Seems to me we've got to reconsider the question of Robert's alibi. He was having his birthday party at Ledcott on Monday evening, and I'm beginning to wonder if he didn't slip away for half an hour and murder Lucas Dale. Ledcott's only two miles. Give him half an hour, and he and the Douglas could have done it on their heads.”

“Letting your imagination run away with you, aren't you, Frank?”

“Perhaps—I don't know. I want to get back and see if that bike has been out, and what Robert's alibi is this time.”

“Motive,” said Lamb—“what's your imagination got to say about that? Unless you're plain homicidal you've got to have a motive. And what motive would Robert have for murdering Cora de Lisle?”

“None, unless he was the murderer of Lucas Dale—and we don't know what motive he might have for that. But I've never been so sure about anything in all my life as I am that Dale's murderer stood eavesdropping by the study door whilst Lily Green made her statement. He heard that she had seen Cora de Lisle by the open study window just after the shot was fired. We took it to mean that she had murdered Dale, but if that was so, she wouldn't have been murdered herself. She wasn't killed for the balance of the fifty-pound note, because it was there in her handbag. No, she was murdered because Dale's murderer stood at the study door and heard that she had been, or might have been, a witness of his crime. The window was open, the curtain was drawn back, and a moment after the shot was fired Lily saw Cora de Lisle by that open window. Dale's murderer couldn't risk what she might have seen. He got away before we did—say ten minutes start and no regard for the speed limit. He had the luck to find the house empty, and he silenced her. They're wasting their time looking for fingerprints. There won't be any—he's a cunning devil.”

“Robert?” said Inspector Lamb in his solid voice.

The mechanical precision deserted Frank Abbott. He said uncertainly,

“I don't know——”

CHAPTER XXXVII

They picked up a young constable in Netherbourne, and sat silent in front whilst he sat silent behind until they reached the house. The yard was dark. Beyond it vague light from blinded windows, and very faintly the rhythmic throb of dance music from the wireless in the servants' hall.

Frank Abbott's torch sent a sharp beam into the dark. He led the way to a shed on the left, flung the door open, and let the beam come to rest upon a motor-bicycle. With Lamb still on the threshold, he swung round.

“Only just off the road—the engine's hot, and look at those tyres.”

The Inspector looked, took the torch from his hand, and turned it about. From a nail on the wall depended a motor helmet and goggles. He put down a hand to feel the engine, gave Abbott back his torch, and walked out of the shed.

“We'll need to see Robert,” he said. “Now you and me, we'll go along to the front door and ring for Raby. And you, Gill, I'd like you to go in this way. Ring the back door bell and say I'm expecting you. If Robert Stack is there, tell him I want to see him and bring him along to the study. Got that?”

The young constable said, “Yes, sir.”

Waiting on the front door step for Raby, neither of the two men spoke. Through the dragging silence came at last the sound of footsteps, a key turning, and the grinding of the bolt. King's Bourne kept its approach well guarded on this side at least. But if the enemy was within the gate——

The door swung in. With Frank Abbott's thought unfinished they passed into the hall.

Lamb said, “Robert in yet?” and at Raby's half surprised, “Oh, yes, sir,” he added, “Send him through to the study. I want to see him.”

Raby was apologetic.

“I'm afraid the fire's been let down, sir. I didn't understand that you would be coming back.”

“It doesn't matter—just leave it. Send Robert along. Here, just a minute—when did he come in?”

“Ten minutes ago, or a quarter of an hour, sir—I couldn't say for certain.”

Though the fire had died, the study was still warm. Order and sober beauty sprang into view as the light came on. There was a strong contrast with the room they had left in Ledlington, yet the two rooms were held together by the dreadful link of murder. Frank Abbott went to the fireplace and stood looking down at the sunk ash upon the hearth. A charred log still smouldered. He pushed it with his foot, and a stray spark or two flew up.

The Inspector took his accustomed seat, and almost at once Robert Stack came in—a thin young man with dark eyes and a sallow complexion. He looked nervously about the room, and started slightly as the door was closed behind him by Gill.

Abbott straightened up and walked over to the table. His light eyes scanned the pale face, the thin, rather ungainly figure. How much nerve did you have to have to commit two murders in three days? It occurred to him that Robert did not look as if he would have the nerve to kill a rabbit. But then murderers never did look like murderers. They had the outward shape and aspect of the ordinary man. Only within there lurked the thing which set them apart.

Lamb allowed the silence to become menacing before he said,

“You have been out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When did you go?”

“Round about a quarter to six, sir. Mr. Raby gave me leave.”

“And you came in when?”

“Not very long ago, sir.”

“How long ago?”

“Matter of ten minutes or a quarter of an hour.”

“You went out on your motor-cycle?”

Robert's eyes shifted.

“Oh, no, sir.”

Lamb leaned forward, an impending bulk, his red face not good-natured any more but threatening.

“You've had your bicycle out.” He used Abbott's words unconsciously. “It's only just off the road—the engine's hot.”

Robert looked terrified.

“Oh, no, sir—indeed I never. Indeed, sir, you've got it wrong.”

Lamb kept his eyes on the agitated face, but he leaned back in his chair and said,

“All right, go on—tell your own story.”

Robert didn't seem to have any story to tell. He twisted his hands and repeated nervously,

“I just stepped out. Mr. Raby gave me leave.”

Frank Abbott helped him out.

“Where did you go?”

“Down to the village.”

“See anyone?”

“No, sir.”

Lamb came in again.

“Why did you go down into the village?”

Robert's pallor became suffused with an ugly flush. His Adam's apple slid up and down as he gulped and said,

“I just stepped out.”

Lamb brought the flat of his hand down sharply upon a massive knee.

“Look here, my lad, if you can give an account of yourself you'd better do it. If you can't, well, it'll be the worse for you. You're not bound to incriminate yourself, and I'm bound to tell you that anything you say may be used against you. But if you've got a reasonable explanation to give and you don't give it, well, you'll only have yourself to thank for what you get.”

Robert cast a harried glance about him. The ugly colour deepened under the damp skin.

“I don't know what you've got against me. You can ask Mr. Raby—he gave me leave.”

“What for?”

“It wasn't for anything as it turned out. They'd gone in shopping to Ledlington.”

“Oh, that's your story—you went to see someone. Who was it?”

“It was Mary Leeson.”

“Yes? Mary Leeson—who is Mary Leeson?”

“From Ledcott—and she's staying with her aunt Mrs. Pipe, so Mr. Raby gave me leave to step out, but when I got down there the house was all shut up.”

“So you took your motor-bike and went off after them—is that it?”

“No, sir, I didn't—I never went near it. I just waited, thinking they'd be home any time.”

“Who do you mean by they?”

“Mary and her aunt Mrs. Pipe, sir.”

“And how did you know they had gone to Ledlington?”

Robert swallowed desperately.

“Well, sir, they said so. Mary said she'd be going in with her aunt shopping, but they meant to be back for tea, so I waited.”

“And when did they come?”

The Adam's apple shot up and down.

“They didn't come, sir. They must have missed the bus, and I dursn't wait any longer, so I come away.”

Inspector Lamb heaved himself out of his chair and went to the door. He had a word with Gill and came back.

“All right,” he said, “you can go. If I want you again I'll send for you.”

He watched him out of the door, slewed round, and said,

“Well—what do you make of that?”

There was no expression at all in Frank Abbott's face as he said,

“Someone had that motor-bike out.”

Lamb nodded.

“I wonder whether Mr. Carrick has an alibi this time.”

“Carrick?”

“Carrick,” said the Inspector.

“But he couldn't have known—it must have been someone in the house. The girl had hardly finished her statement. How could Carrick possibly know that she had heard the shot and seen the de Lisle woman by the study window? He couldn't have known—there isn't any possible way. The girl had only just told her mother.”

“And her mother works for Mrs. O'Hara. She works for Mrs. O'Hara, and she was so concerned about Miss Susan Lenox and Mr. Bill Carrick that she made her daughter own up to having seen Miss de Lisle—flat in face of the daughter's jealous young man. Well then, she didn't come up here with Lily, did she? Do you suppose she stayed at home and washed up the tea things? There isn't the woman born that'd stay at home with a bit of news like she'd just got from Lily, and if she didn't come up here with her, it's because she'd got somewhere better to go. I say she took her news over to Mrs. O'Hara. And I say Mr. Carrick had it before we did, and didn't waste the time over it that we did either. Why, he knows the place and everyone in it like the back of his hand. Do you suppose he didn't know that Robert had a motor-bike, and where he kept it? What had he got to do but walk up the garden and ride the bike over to Ledlington and back? There was the helmet and goggles ready to his hand—a disguise you can't beat.”