Elk 04 White Face (16 page)

“The left side. Then I hooked his clock—his watch, I mean—with my little finger—like this.”

His hands moved swiftly. There happened to be a pocket-case in Mr. Bray’s inside pocket. It also happened to contain the photograph of a very pretty girl, which fell on the floor. Bray retrieved it quickly and made a wrathful protest.

“And he’s married!” was Elk’s shocked murmur.

Bray went very red.

“All right, you can get up.”

Taking a sheet of paper out of a drawer, Mason began writing quickly. When he had finished he handed the sheet to Lamborn, who read it over and eventually affixed his sprawling signature to the statement.

“Why did you want to know, guv’nor?” he asked. “What’s my robbery got to do with the murder?”

Mason smiled.

“You’ll read all about it in one of the evening papers—I’ll try to arrange that your photograph’s published.”

Elk laughed hollowly.

“What’s the matter with his finger-prints?”

“But why do you want me to tell, Mr. Mason?”

Mason did not explain.

“Release this man, Bray. Mark the charge ‘withdrawn.’ You’ll have to attend the police court to-morrow morning, but you needn’t go into the dock.”

“It’s the only part of it he knows,” said Elk sotto voce.

Lamborn shook hands forgivingly with the chief and with Elk.

“One thing, Harry,” said Mason, and the released prisoner paused at the door. “You’ll be given back all your possessions except the jemmy we found in your pocket. I didn’t tell you, but I was putting a felony charge against you in the morning—‘Loitering with intent.’ Congratulations!”

Lamborn made a hurried exit from the police station. Until morning came he lay in his bed, puzzling to find a solution of the strange philosophy of Superintendent Mason, and could discover no answer that was consistent with his knowledge of English police methods.

“Michael, this young lady of yours—what was she at the clinic?”

“I believe she acted as Marford’s secretary,” said Michael, surprised. And then, anxiously: “You’re not going to see her to-night, are you?”

Mason was undecided.

“Yes, I think I will. Somebody ought to be told about the doctor—I mean, somebody that matters. Besides, she may give us some very valuable help.”

“What help could she give you?” asked Michael suspiciously.

Mason rolled his head impatiently.

“If you imagine I’m waking her up in the middle of the night on any old excuse for the sake of seeing her in her negligee, you’re nattering me. I’m out to find all the threads that lead to and from everybody who has played a part in this crime,” he said. “I want to know who were Marford’s friends, who were his enemies, and I can think of nobody else who can tell me. She can, because she worked with him, and Elk’s got an idea that he was sweet on her.”

“Rubbish!” said Michael scornfully. “I don’t suppose he ever looked at her twice.”

“Once is enough for most men,” said Mason. “Are you going to take me up and introduce me?”

When they were huddled up under heavy rugs, for a cold wind made an open car a death trap, Michael gave expression to his fears.

“It’s going to be a terrible shock to Janice—Miss Harman.”

“Call her Janice: it sounds more friendly. Yes, I suppose it is. Marford is a fellow who got a lot of affection and sympathy without asking for it.”

“His body hasn’t been found?”

Mason shook his head.

“And it won’t be, in spite of the blood. If he’d been dead, White Face would have left him, wouldn’t he?”

It was the first encouraging statement Mason had made.

Bury Street was lifeless when the car drew up before the flat, and it was a quarter of an hour before they could arouse the porter. Mason identified himself, and the two en climbed up to the first floor.

The maid was a heavy sleeper; it was Janice who heard the bell and, getting into her dressing-gown, opened the door to them. The first person she saw was Mason, whom she did not recognise.

“Don’t be worried, Miss Harman. I have a friend of yours with me.”

And then she saw Michael and her alarm was stilled. She took them into the drawing-room, went off to wake her maid (there was something old-ladyish about Janice, Michael decided), and came back to the drawing-room to learn the reason for this visitation.

“I’m afraid I’ve got rather bad news for you. Miss Harman,” said Mason.

Invariably he adapted his tone to the subject of his speech, and he was so melancholy that she thought he could have come only on one subject, the murder of Donald Bateman.

“I know. Mr. Quigley has told me,” she said. “You want to ask me about the ring? I gave it–-“

He shook his head.

“No. Dr. Marford has disappeared.”

She stared at him.

“You mean—he is not hurt?”

“I hope not,” said Mason. “I sincerely hope not.”

It was remarkable to Michael that this man, whom he had regarded as a stout, unimaginative and fairly commonplace officer of police, could tell the story with such little offence, and suppress so much without losing any of the main facts. She listened: the news was less shocking than that of Bateman’s death, but it left her with a deeper heartache, for Marford was one of the ideals which experience and disillusionment had left undisturbed.

“The trouble is, we know nothing about the doctor or any of his friends, and we don’t know where to start our inquiries. You were his secretary–-“

“No, not his secretary,” she corrected. “I kept the accounts of the clinic, and sometimes of the convalescent home, and I was helping him to get Annerford ready—he has been trying for a year to open a tuberculosis institute for the children of Tidal Basin.”

“Where is Annerford?” asked Mason, and she told him and described the work which the doctor had set himself to do.

He had planned greatly, it seemed; had, in one of the drawers of his desk, blue prints of a princely building. His appeal to the wealthy public was already typewritten, and he had discussed with her many of the details.

“Now, Miss Harman,” said Mason, “you know the people of the clinic. Is there anybody there who had a grudge against the doctor, or did he have any great friend there—man or woman?”

She shook her head.

“There was an elderly nurse and one or two occasional helpers. The staff at Eastbourne consisted of a matron and a nurse. He was trying to raise money to enlarge these homes,” she said; “it was always a source of distress to the doctor that the places were understaffed, but they cost an awful lot of money.”

“There was nobody at any of these places—the clinic, the home at Eastbourne or at Annerford—who was in the doctor’s confidence?”

She smiled at this.

“Not at Annerford. No, I know of nobody. He had no friends.” Her lip quivered. “You don’t think…any harm has come to him?”

Mason did not reply.

“Did Bateman have any friends?” he asked.

She considered the question.

“Yes, there was a man who came over with him from South Africa, but he never mentioned his name. The only other person he seemed to know was Dr. Rudd.”

Mason opened his eyes wide. “Dr. Rudd?” he said. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. She told him the story of the dinner and Bateman’s perturbation when he had seen the doctor, resplendent in evening dress.

“That certainly beats me. Where could he have met Rudd?” said Mason. “All gay and beautiful, was he—the doctor, I mean? Yes, I knew he knocked about a little bit in the West End, but I didn’t realise—h’m!”

He looked down at the carpet for a long time, deep in thought.

“Yes,” he said suddenly. “Of course. I understand now. Naturally he didn’t want to meet Rudd.”

He looked at Michael quizzically.

“Are you going to stay to breakfast?” he asked, and Michael returned an indignant denial.

“You’d better go down to Tidal Basin and wait for me. I’m only calling at Scotland Yard to check up a few dates; I’ll be with you in an hour. I’m sending a police car back—you can use that.”

* * * * *

White Face waited patiently for daylight. He had changed his clothes, and the suit he wore now would attract no attention when he lined up at Forest Gate for his char-a-banc ticket to the coast. Once or twice he went in to see his unwilling companion, and on each occasion found the doctor sleeping peacefully.

From his pocket he took an evening paper which he had not had time to read before. There was quite a lot about White Face, of course. He was a star turn in those days. Great authors, who catered exclusively for the intelligentsia, stepped down from their high pedestals to speculate upon what one called “this amusing malefactor.” The Howdah affair was still topical. There was a revival of the “Devil of Tidal Basin”; some gross plagiarist had attempted to revitalise the myth, but it needed Michael Quigley’s skilful touch to make it live.

He dropped the paper on to the table, walked out into the open and stood listening. From far away he could hear the sound of distant motor-cars, and whilst he stood there, he saw a white magnesium rocket, probably a Verey light, flame in the air and die. So the police had put on the barrage! He knew that signal. A suspected car had been seen, and the white flare was the order to the nearest police control to stop and search it. Ingenious people, the London police, in their quiet untheatrical way. Very difficult, very dangerous to fool with. And yet they were not men of education—just common policemen who had raised themselves out of the rut, established their own little hierarchy, and attained by some extraordinary method a complete efficiency.

He did not despise them nor did he fear them. The odds against his escaping were twenty to one—there was enough of the gambler in him to fancy his chance.

No man who was wanted, and whose photograph was procurable, had ever escaped from England. Perhaps some did, but the police never admitted the exceptions.

As he came back along the passage he heard a faint voice call from the open door of the darkened room.

“Can I have some water, please?”

He carried a glass in to the doctor, who drank it and thanked him.

“You’re in considerable danger, my friend. I hope you realise that?” said the voice from the sofa weakly.

“My dear Doctor, I have been in danger for quite a long time—go to sleep, and don’t worry about me.”

He waited till he heard the doctor’s regular breathing, and then came out, closing the door softly behind him.

Danger! It had no significance for White Face. He feared nothing, literally and figuratively feared nothing. He did not regret one act of his life; regretted least of all that which had sent Donald Bateman into nothingness. Perhaps Walter would not have approved, but then Walter was weak—a daring man, but weak. White Face approved his own deed, which approval was more important than self-glorification.

Poor old Gregory! As for the doctor, he would put water and some kind of refreshment ready to his hand. In the morning he would be well enough to drive the taxi to the nearest police station.

Only one regret he had, and that he did not allow his mind to rest upon. But to give up life was an easy matter if necessity arose; with life one surrendered all aspirations.

He had finished his shaving, using cream instead of soap and water, when he heard a footstep in the passage. The doctor, then, was awake; that was unfortunate. He took one step towards the door when it opened. Mason stood there; an untidy Mason with his hat on the back of his head and his overcoat unfastened.

“I took the liberty of coming through a back window; most of them are open,” he said. “I want you, of course.”

“Naturally,” said White Face. There was no tremor in his voice. “You’ll find the doctor in the next room. I don’t think there’s very much the matter with him.”

He held out his hands, but Mason shook his head.

“Handcuffs are old-fashioned. Have you got a gun?”

White Face shook his head.

“Then we’ll step along,” said Mason politely, and guided him by the arm into the darkness outside.

Stopping to despatch his men to look after the doctor, he led his prisoner to where the police car was waiting.

“You weren’t seen, but you were heard,” he explained.

White Face laughed.

“A taxicab in low gear is a menace to the security of the criminal classes,” he said lightly.

To kill time he wandered up and down the streets, revisited the scene of the murder, would have gone again to Gallows Court for news, if Gallows Court had not come out to meet him.

Michael was turning over the mud in the gutter with the toe of his boot when he saw the odd figure of the crazy man crossing the road. This strange apparition had one curious (and welcome) characteristic. He avoided the light, and no sooner had he come within the range of the arc lamp, than he halted and half turned away from its searching beams.

“Come over here, reporter! I’ve got something to tell you.”

“You can tell me your name to start with.”

The oddity chuckled. “I ain’t got a name. My parents forgot to give me one.” (This astounding statement, Michael discovered was true.) “People call me anything they like—Shoey, some of ‘em, because I used to black shoes.”

“What have you got to tell me?” asked Michael.

“He took the doctor away.”

He said this in a hoarse whisper.

“Who—White Face?”

Shoey nodded violently.

“I’ve got all the rights of it now. He took him in his cab—he was layin’ there on the floor and nobody knew.”

He doubled up with silent laughter and slapped his knees in an agony of enjoyment.

“That makes me laugh! Mason don’t know! All these clever busies from Scotland Yard, and they don’t know that!”

“What are the ‘rights of it’?” asked Michael.

Sometimes, Mason had said, this strange creature was nearer to the truth than a saner man.

“Elk knows.”

The man without a name stuck a grimy forefinger into Michael’s ribs to point his remark.

“That fellow’s wider than Broad Street. Elk! I’ll bet you he knowed all the time! But he likes to keep things to hisself until he’s got ‘em all cleared up. I’ve heard Bray say that—Bray’s got no more brains than a rabbit,” he added.

Somebody was walking along the sidewalk towards them.

“That’s him!” whispered the ragged object and melted across the street.

Bray was at such a distance that it seemed impossible for anybody to recognise that it was he. It appeared that he was walking off a grievance.

“As soon as this affair is over I’m going to put things straight,” he said aggressively. “Mason really shouldn’t do it! You understand, Quigley, that an officer of my rank has his position to uphold; and how can I uphold it if important inquiries are placed in the hands of subordinates? Insubordinates, I call ‘em!”

“What’s Elk been doing now?”

There was no need to ask who was the offender.

“Mason is a good fellow,” Bray went on, “one of the best men in the force and one of the cutest. It you ever get a chance of dropping a hint that I said that, I’d be obliged, Quigley. You needn’t make a point of repeating the conversation, but just mention it accidentally—he takes a lot of notice of what you say. But he’s altogether wrong about Elk. Evil,” he went on poetically, “is wrought by want of thought as well as want of heart—”

“Shakespeare?” murmured Michael.

“I dare say,” said Bray, who had no idea that American citizens wrote poetry. “Mason does these things thoughtlessly. I told him I was willing to cross-examine this woman as soon as she came round and was in a fit state to talk. But no, Elk must do it! Elk knows her, apparently. But I ask you, Quigley, is it necessary to know a person before you question ‘em? Was I properly introduced to Lamborn—there’s another scandal; he’s out on bail!”

To shorten the length of the grievance, Michael suggested that they should walk back together to the station. They arrived at an interesting time for Inspector Bray, because Lorna Weston had decided to talk.

She had refused to go into the inspector’s office, and was seated in the charge-room, the bandaged Elk towering over her. Michael could see that it was not his but Bray’s presence which brought that demoniacal frown to the sergeant’s face when they appeared.

“All right, let’s have all the press in, Bray,” he said savagely. “Won’t you come into the private office, Mrs. Weston?”

“No, I won’t.” The pale-faced woman was determined on the point. “I’ll say what I want to say here.”

“All right,” said Elk grimly. And to Shale, who was the stenographer of the party: “Get your book. You’re known as Lorna Weston,” he began, “and you’re the wife of–-?”

She had parted her lips to speak when Mason came in briskly; behind him came two detectives and between them walked their prisoner.

Lorna Weston came up to her feet, her eyes fixed upon the smiling man who stood between the two guards—unconcerned, perfectly at his ease, not by so much as the droop of an eye betraying consciousness of his deadly peril.

“There he is! There he is!” she shrieked, pointing at him. “The murderer! You killed him! You said you would if you ever met him, and you did it!”

Mason watched the prisoner curiously, but he made no response.

“It wasn’t for me you hated him. It wasn’t because he took me away from you—it was because of your brother who died in prison.”

The man nodded.

“It was because of that,” he said simply. “If he could be brought to life and I were free, I’d kill him again.”

“Do you hear him?” she shrieked. “My husband—Tommy Furse!”

“Call me by my real name,” said the other. “Thomas Marford! It is a pretty good name, though it has been borne by some pretty bad people.”

He turned smilingly to Mason.

“You won’t want this lady, I think? I can tell you all you wish to know, and I will clear up any point which may seem to you to be obscure.”

Michael Quigley stood petrified, unable to speak or move. Marford! This self-possessed man…White Face…hold-up man, murderer…He must be dreaming. But no, here was the reality.

Marford, as unemotional as the crowd of detectives who stood around him, was twiddling his watch-chain, looking half amused, half pityingly at the shivering woman who called herself his wife.

He was evidently considering something else than his own position.

“I hope Dr. Rudd will feel no ill-effects from his unhappy experience,” he said. “As I told you earlier in the morning, I don’t think he will suffer anything worse than a headache, which he can easily remedy. He has been in my garage all the night. You see,” he was almost apologetic, “Rudd had a theory, which was to me a very dangerous theory on the lips of a rather loquacious and not terribly clever man. His view, which he was developing most uncomfortably, was that there was only one person who could possibly have killed Bateman—and that was myself! He thought it was a huge joke, but it wasn’t a joke to me; and when he called in at my surgery on the way to the station to put his ideas before you, I realised at once that I was in considerable danger. I realised more than this,” he added calmly, “that my life’s work was done, that my clinic and my convalescent home and my new rest-house at Annerford—how did you find your way to Annerford Farm, by the way? But perhaps you wouldn’t like to tell me—were things of the past, and that I must save myself at all costs.”

He looked round and caught Elk’s eye and shook his head sadly.

“I had to do it, Elk. I’m terribly sorry. You’re the last man in the world I would have hurt.”

To Mason’s surprise, Elk grinned amiably.

“I don’t know anyone I’d rather take a coshing from,” he said handsomely.

“You were a dangerous man, too,” smiled Marford, “but I couldn’t give you a whisky and soda with a little shot of drug in it, as I gave to Dr. Rudd. Just enough to put him under for a few minutes. What I did then was to dope him and put him in the garage. I was afraid he had betrayed me later, when I heard him groaning. You probably heard him groaning, too; I think you mentioned the fact to me?”

He addressed the reporter, and Michael remembered the noise he had heard as he had moved through Gallows Court in the dead of the night.

“There is one other matter I’m concerned about—how is old Gregory? I’m afraid he’s taken it rather badly.”

He talked fluently enough, but with a little slur in his voice. It was the first time Mason had noticed that he had an impediment of speech which caused him to lisp a little. “I’m rather anxious you should take my statement now.”

Mason nodded.

“I must caution you, Dr. Marford—I suppose you are a doctor, Marford?”

Marford inclined his head.

“Yes, I am qualified: lay anything to my door but the charge of being a quack! You can confirm this by a visit to my surgery, where you will find the certificates.”

“I have to warn you,” Mason went on conventionally, “that what you now say may be taken down and used at your trial.”

“That I understand,” said Marford.

He looked at his wife; she had approached more closely to him; her dark eyes were blazing with hate; the straight, white mouth was bloodless.

“You’ll hang for this, Tommy!” she breathed. “Oh, God, I’m glad—you’ll hang for it!”

“Why not?” he asked coolly, and, turning on his heels, followed Mason into the inspector’s office.

“A nice woman,” was his only comment on his wife’s outburst. “Her loyalty to her unfortunate friend is almost touching—but then, loyalty invariably is. I cannot let myself think about poor Gregory Wicks.”

He was sincere: Mason had no doubt of it. There was no cynicism in his tone. Whatever else he might be, Thomas Marford was not a hypocrite.

Mason offered him a glass of water, which he refused.

He sat down by the side of the writing-table; his only request was that somebody should open a window, for the room was unpleasantly crowded. And then he told his story. He did not refuse a cigarette, but through most of the narrative he held it and its many successors between his fingers and only occasionally raised it to his lips.

“Are you ready?” he asked, and Sergeant Shale, who had opened a new notebook, tested his fountain pen and nodded.