Who Pays the Piper? (26 page)

“And what about Lane? He's supposed to be keeping an eye on him.”

Lamb frowned.

“That's where I blame myself—Carrick ought to have been under arrest. Lane couldn't be both sides of the house at once. I say there wasn't anything to stop Carrick going up the garden in the dark and taking that bike. There's one thing—he'll think he's been too clever to be suspected. I'll just check up on Mr. Bell and the secretary, and then we'll get going.”

There was a sameness, it appeared, about the accounts which Mr. Phipson and Mr. Bell had to give of themselves. Mr. Phipson had been in his room engaged in the peaceful pursuit of reading the
Times
and writing half a dozen letters. He actually had them in his hand stamped for the post as he entered the study. He had been out in the afternoon, but not since tea—“Oh, no, certainly not,” though he proposed walking down to the village with his letters so as to get a breath of air before dinner. Secretarial work though of great interest induced, he feared, somewhat sedentary habits. If the Inspector did not require his presence, he really would appreciate the opportunity of getting a little fresh air.… The Inspector preferred that no one should leave the house for the moment? “Oh, certainly, certainly. My letters are not really of great importance—they can very well wait.”

So much for Mr. Phipson.

Mr. Vincent Bell, with a lamentable lack of originality, had once more been having a bath.

Lamb's eyebrows went up. Abbott restrained a smile. He said,

“Quite a lot of people do, you know, before dinner.”

“Seems a funny time to me,” said Lamb.

Vincent Bell laughed.

“Well, you see, I'm a very methodical man, and I've got my habits. I go out walking round about six o'clock, and then I come in and have a bath and a change. Some folk don't like walking in the dark, but I do, so there it is. I missed my walk on Monday because I was talking to Dale, but every other night I've been here I've gone out and walked, and come back and taken a bath. You can ask Raby—he can tell you he's heard the noise those pipes make.”

Inspector Lamb looked glum. Vincent Bell laughed again.

“I haven't got any alibi. But say, Captain, why do I have to have one? Monday night Dale was getting himself bumped off. Naturally, you want to know what everyone in the house was doing. That's O.K., but what's all this getting busy over when I went for a walk, or whether I had a bath tonight? Dale's dead, isn't he? Do I have to have someone around to give me an alibi every place I go? What's the big idea?”

“Do you ride a motor-bicycle, Mr. Bell?”

Vincent's eyes sharpened.

“Not if I can get an automobile,” he said.

“Did you ride one tonight?”

The sharp gaze became a wary one?

“I told you I went walking.”

“Where did you go? Did you meet anyone?”

“Now let me see—I went down the drive and turned to the left, and up a hill, and around and about. And I didn't what you'd call meet anyone. There was a car or two, and a petting party going on by a field gate, but they wouldn't be taking any interest in me.”

“You didn't ride a motor-bicycle into Ledlington and pay a call on Miss Cora de Lisle?”

Vincent Bell whistled.

“That dame! What would I be wanting to pay a call on her for?”

“I don't know. Did you know her?”

“No, I didn't. I saw her go away the morning she came here to see Dale. He talked about her afterwards—said she was poison and he was well quit of her—said she'd do him a mischief if she could, but he'd see to it she didn't.”

“You ought to have told us all that before,” said Lamb quickly.

Vincent said, “Oh, well——” and then, “It was just Dale's way of talking. I don't suppose she'd a thing to do with it—looked kind of down and out to me. And that's where Dale was foolish. He'd money to burn—why couldn't he pay her alimony and keep her quiet? He didn't give her a cent—of course she was sore.” As he talked, his eyes went from Lamb to Abbott.

Frank Abbott said,

“Did you see her tonight?”

“I never saw her at all but the once she was over here.”

“You didn't go into Ledlington this evening?”

“No, I didn't. And I'm asking you again what's all this about?” He pushed back his chair and got up, his eyes bright and intent. “Ledlington—and a motor-bicycle—and Cora de Lisle—and an alibi—what's it all about? Looks to me as if something had happened to Cora de Lisle. Is that what you're getting at?”

Inspector Lamb said sharply, “What makes you think that, Mr. Bell?”

“Wouldn't anyone think of it, Captain?”

Lamb looked at him hard and said, “Cora de Lisle probably saw Dale shot. Somebody knocked her on the head round about half past six this evening in Ledlington.”

“And you think it might have been me?”

“It was someone who was afraid she might be going to give him away,” said Inspector Lamb.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Some time later Vincent Bell came into the inner hall. Mr. Montague Phipson was setting his watch by the grandfather clock. He turned about and came to meet him.

“This is a very strange affair,” he said with a mixture of nervousness and formality in his manner. An onlooker might have thought that, much as Mr. Phipson disliked his present company, he yet considered it in the circumstances to be better than no company at all. “Perhaps if I might have a word with you——” He opened the drawing-room door as he spoke and put on all the lights.

The candles in their gilt sconces lit up the old-ivory panelling, the polished floor, the dim lovely colours of the Persian rugs, the graceful Adam mantelpiece, and the long, straight folds of blue which curtained the four tall windows.

Mr. Phipson shut the door and came into the middle of the room. He thought it had a dead feeling. It was warm because of the central heating installed by Lucas Dale, but no fire had been lighted here for the past two days, and the air felt dead. He cleared his throat, straightened his pince-nez, and repeated the words which he had used in the hall.

“This is a very strange affair. I really cannot make it out. Why should the Inspector ask us all these questions? I have been in my room all the evening, but why does he want to know where I have been? It seems to me extremely intrusive. Are we to account for every moment of our time?”

Vincent surveyed him with a twinkle in his eye.

“Well, that's how I put it to him myself.”

“And what did he say to that? Did he tell you why they were asking all these questions? I am sure I am most willing to assist the police in the execution of their duties, but I think we are entitled to an explanation.”

“Oh, there's an explanation all right,” said Vincent Bell rather soberly. “There's been another murder—that's what.”

“Another murder!” Mr. Phipson's voice was shrill with horror.

“Cora de Lisle,” said Vincent Bell.

Mr. Phipson had to retrieve his glasses. They slipped from his nose and hung dangling. He put them on crooked, and said in a shaking voice,

“Miss de Lisle?”

“Knocked on the head in Ledlington at half past six this evening—that's what the Inspector says. And that's why they want to know what you and I were doing between six and seven, Sonny boy.”

Mr. Phipson disregarded the insult.

“Murder!” he said. “But why? Why should anyone have murdered her?”

He got a shrewd glance.

“Old Lamb seems to think she knew more than was good for her—seems to think she knew who bumped Dale off. Say, did he ask you if you rode a motor-bicycle? Because that's what he asked me—seemed to think the guy who bumped her off took a ride to Ledlington on a motor-bicycle.”

Mr. Phipson's face expressed horror.

“No—oh, no—he didn't ask me that.”

“And do you ride a motor-bicycle?” said Vincent Bell. It didn't seem likely, but it amused him to see the little man wince and wriggle.

“No—oh, no—oh, certainly not.”

“Then you're in luck.”

Mr. Phipson dropped his glasses again. He did not put them on immediately, but let them dangle while he blinked at Vincent with his near-sighted eyes.

“Oh, dear me—what a terrible thing! Do you mean to say that the unfortunate woman has actually been murdered?”

“That seems to be the idea, Sonny boy.”

“Don't call me that!”

Vincent Bell dropped his tone of badinage.

“Quit acting like it then. The woman's been killed, and they want to know who killed her. There's something behind this motor-bicycle stuff. Who's got one here?”

Mr. Phipson took out a silk pocket-handkerchief and began to polish his glasses.

“Robert——” he said in a meditative tone. “He keeps it in the yard.”

“I suppose old Lamb is wise to that? I shouldn't pick Robert for a killer myself.”

Mr. Phipson replaced his pince-nez and answered the first part of this remark.

“I don't know—it might be one's duty——” He moved a little nearer the door. “Oh, dear me—how very upsetting! My window looks out upon the yard. I'm really very much afraid that it may be my duty to let the police know that I heard the motor-bicycle go out—now, let me see, when would it have been? I had just finished drafting an advertisement for the
Times
—I have, naturally, to seek re-employment—and I think—yes, I am sure it was about six o'clock. Did you hear anything?”

“No—I was out at six.” Vincent spoke carelessly and without thought. It was not until he noticed a most peculiar expression on Mr. Phipson's face that he realized the possible implications of what he had just said.

“Oh, dear me,” said Montague Phipson—“you went out at six. How very unfortunate—for you—and perhaps for Miss de Lisle.”

Vincent glared.

“What do you mean by that? If it's your idea of a wisecrack, you'll be doing it once too often!”

Mr. Phipson reached the door and stood ready to open it.

“You had better be careful. If you threaten me, I shall not hesitate to call for help, and it will then be my clear duty to inform the police that not only did I hear that motor-bicycle start up just after six o'clock, but that I went and looked out of my window, and to the best of my belief it was not Robert who was taking it out. The yard was dark of course, but I have very good night sight—short-sighted people not uncommonly have—and I am prepared to swear that the rider was a smaller man than Robert. You,” said Mr. Phipson gently, “are a smaller man than Robert.”

Vincent Bell said something vigorously unprintable. Then he was controlled again.

“What sort of fool story is this?” he inquired in a hard voice of rage.

Mr. Phipson clutched the door handle. At the slightest threat of violence he would turn it and call for help. He said so between chattering teeth.

“If you attack me, I shall feel no further hesitation.”

“So you're hesitating, are you?”

“In certain circumstances,” said Mr. Phipson cautiously, “I might feel that it was not my business.”

“Meaning?”

“I think I must leave that to you.”

Vincent Bell made a movement which was almost immediately checked. He might be tempted, but he did not mean to fall. It would hardly help to clear him if he were found wringing this little rat's neck. He plunged his hands deep in his pockets and said,

“Blackmail?”

“Oh, I wouldn't call it that,” said Mr. Phipson mildly.

“The police would.”

“But they won't have the chance. It would be most unfortunate for you if they did, because it would be only your word against mine, and I should still have heard and seen that motor-bicycle.”

Vincent Bell stood quite still and looked him over.

“Poison—aren't you? With all this bumping off going on, it's a plain pity nobody thought about you.”

“I shall call for help,” said Mr. Phipson hurriedly.

“You needn't bother. How much do you want?”

Mr. Phipson heaved a sigh of relief. Violence was always so regrettable, and there had already been far too much of it.

“Well, you have to consider that I may be out of a job for some time. When you used an extremely regrettable word just now, I think you perhaps failed to take into consideration the fact that compensation is not unusual where prospects have been impaired or forfeited.”

“So I killed Dale, and I'm to compensate you for the loss of your job. Is that it?”

“You might put it that way. It would, of course, be perfectly clear to the police that the person who killed Miss de Lisle would be the person who shot Mr. Dale. I think reasonable compensation for my loss of employment is—er—not unreasonable.”

“And what do you call reasonable compensation?”

“A thousand pounds,” said Mr. Phipson with a slight tremor in his voice.

CHAPTER XXXIX

Inspector Lamb had been quite right about Mrs. Green. Torn between a desire to accompany Lily to King's Bourne and an urge to be the first to convey such exciting news to the Little House, she decided after a brief struggle upon the latter course. At King's Bourne she would have had to play second fiddle to Lily—she might not even have been admitted to the study whilst Lily made her statement—but at the Little House she would have the field all to herself. She had carried many pieces of news in her time, but never anything so exciting as this. She put on her Sunday hat and coat, and after a heartening contest with William Cole, who had arrived to find Lily gone and was consequently in the worst of tempers, she slammed and locked her front door and stepped across the village street.

The Little House was only a couple of hundred yards away, yet Mrs. Green arrived there quite out of breath with excitement and hurry. Susan, opening the door to her knock, wondered what could possibly have happened. Then, with a sickening leap of the heart, she began to be afraid.