Murder of a Snob (9 page)

“In the drawer of the writing table, sir.”

“Oh!
thank
you!” cried Glenda. “I'm ever so sorry I said that about you. It was nerves, really.”

“That's all right—please forget it!” smiled Benscombe. But he handed the envelope to his Chief.

“What does this envelope contain, Miss Parsons?” asked Crisp.

“It's personal,” she answered. “Please give it to me. You know it's mine, because it's got my name on—I can see.”

“I am investigating a murder,” said Crisp. “What's inside?”

“It's nothing to do with the murder—really it isn't. It's just personal.”

Crisp slit the envelope, took out a folded cheque.

“‘Pay Bearer five hundred pounds',” he read aloud.

Glenda hung her head.

“Can I have it, please?”

“I still don't see,” said Crisp, “why he didn't give it you—er—at your last meeting—or your next?”

“He couldn't. There were reasons.” Already she had grasped that it was useless talking to Crisp like that. “The fact is, I had some diamonds which my mother left me. And I asked Lord Watlington, and he said he'd very kindly sell them for me. And so he couldn't give me the money at our last meeting because he didn't know how much they'd fetch. And I didn't want it sent by post, because Arthur opens everything, and he's awful with money. That's reasonable enough, isn't it?”

It might be reasonable, thought Crisp, but it wasn't true.

“I wish you'd let me have it, now you know it's nothing to do with the murder.”

“Take it, if you wish,” said Crisp indifferently, handing it to her. “But you can't cash it, you know. The banks stop payment at death.”

“Then I shan't get a penny?” It was a horrified whisper.

“Oh yes, in time! Provided you can satisfy the executors. Of course, they'll probably want you to prove the bit about the diamonds before they pay.”

Benscombe suspected her of intending to throw a faint. With a deft compromise of police officer and dancing partner, he removed her.

“That's a side-line, isn't it, sir?” he asked.

“I don't see where she fits in,” answered Crisp absently. “Mother's diamonds, eh! It might be worth while finding out whether Fenchurch knows anything about that five hundred. You can look after that yourself as soon as you get the chance.”

He glanced at the copy of Ralph's confession.

“This confounded fellow has made a mess of the Regulations. We can't ignore the confession unless we're satisfied it's a hoax. It may or may not be a hoax, but your hunch that it's genuine has been scuppered by Querk.”

Benscombe looked sheepish.

“There's still a chance, sir. Assume that the confession is substantially true—”

“But it isn't. He says he struck through the wig, and he didn't.”

“
Substantially
true, sir, though inaccurate in detail. I'm thinking of the Sefton-Lyle case. Sefton confessed that he had shot Ashwin. But the bullet was found in the garden, Ashwin having pretended to be hit. And it was Lyle who shot Ashwin nearly an hour later.”

“Two bangs and two bullets!” grunted Crisp. “Here we have one blow only. And that blow killed Watlington. Also, what about the time?”

“I'm assuming a deliberate lie in the matter of time. That would rope in your theory, sir, that he is trying to protect Miss Lofting.”

“No luck, boy! Watlington's wife has corroborated the time from that bench in the garden. Cornboise left the study at five fifteen—was out of the place in his car a few minutes later, and did not return until after six thirty.”

“But look here, sir! Given that Cornboise is lying and Querk telling the truth, the murderer must have entered the library almost as soon as Querk left it. That points to Miss Lofting, which is absurd.”

Crisp chuckled.

“Attractive girls don't commit murder, do they, laddie!”

“If they're really attractive, they don't have to,” grinned Benscombe. “I was going to say that, if you have Cornboise in again and let him see you know he's lying—then with Querk's evidence up your sleeve—”

“A rotten place to keep your evidence. We don't need all that diplomacy. We'll put Cornboise in a bag with Querk and shake 'em up together until something drops out. Trot ' em in.”

Querk did not trot. He had by now imposed upon himself the stance of a man who is attending a funeral.

“I am glad, Chief Constable,” he said with a hush in his voice, “that you have taken me at my word. I always feel—bless my soul!” He broke off as Benscombe appeared with Ralph Cornboise.

“Sit down, Mr. Cornboise,” said Crisp.

“I am under your orders.” Ralph sat down. “But I shall not answer any more questions.”

“Then you can listen. In your confession you state that you left the library at five fifteen after killing your uncle. Your statement as to time has been confirmed by two independent witnesses, one of whom is Mr. Querk.”

“You have discovered that I am not a liar! Congratulations, Colonel!”

Crisp turned to Querk.

“Mr. Querk, did you enter the library after you had seen Mr. Cornboise leave it?” As Querk assented. “Did you then have a conversation with Lord Watlington lasting until approximately five thirty?”

“I did, Chief Constable.”

Ralph sprang from his chair. Crisp motioned him to silence.

Querk seized the opportunity to go on talking.

“But surely my friend, Mr. Cornboise, does not maintain that he did this dreadful deed
before
five thirty?”

“What's the good, Querk!” groaned Ralph. “I know you think it's kind of you—it
is
kind! But they'll prove you're only trying to save me. And I don't even want to be saved!”

“Ralph! You want us to believe that you killed your uncle? Before five fifteen? Come, my dear boy!”

Exasperated, Ralph dropped back in his chair without answering.

“He does believe it, Chief Constable!” exclaimed Querk. “It is the clearest possible case of hallucination. He can even persuade himself that I am telling a deliberate falsehood.”

“Oh, shut up, Querk!” snapped Ralph. “It's no good, I tell you!”

“You observe,” said Querk with triumph, “how irritably he addresses—er—myself. Because I am menacing the hallucination. There can be no question whatever of my friend's sincerity. I gladly pardon his brusquerie. Such cases are well authenticated. The patient first wishes he had killed a given person. I grieve to admit that he wishes he had killed his uncle, but before all else, Chief Constable, we must be realistic. The patient—”

A snort of ill-temper came from Ralph.

“Can't you let me off this, Colonel? I've saved you a lot of trouble—you might treat me decently!”

“The patient,” boomed Querk, “becomes terrified of his own wish—it is his secret fear of himself that gives the nightmare the semblance of reality.”

“I'm not a patient, damn you!” shouted Ralph.

So far the process of shaking them up together had yielded little but noise. Crisp decided to give it direction.

“Cornboise, wouldn't you like to ask Mr. Querk a few questions?”

“About that psychological nonsense? No thanks. I've had a bellyfull of the subconscious from—others. I'll ask
you
a question, Chief Constable. I happen to know as well as you do that a doctor can tell how long a chap's been dead. What time did my uncle die?”

For a second only, Crisp hesitated.

“Between five and five thirty,” he said.

“Chief
Constable!
” gasped Querk.

“There you are, Querk!” Ralph laughed contemptuously. “If you prove I didn't do it, you prove you did.”

Querk constructed a smile—the smile that suffocates opponents with understanding and forgiveness.

“I think, my dear boy, that I can safely leave the Chief Constable to deal with
that
little dilemma!”

There fell a short, intense silence.

“I don't know the answer,” said Crisp.

With tolerance, with dignity, the saintlike smile faded. Querk coughed, gave a little deprecatory laugh. “Can it be, Chief Constable, that you think it is I who am suffering from hallucination? That Mr. Cornboise did indeed kill poor Lord Watlington?”

“I don't believe you're suffering from hallucination,” answered Crisp. “And I don't believe Cornboise killed Watlington.”

“That's torn it!” shrieked Ralph Cornboise. The hysteria was coming back. “He thinks you killed uncle! You old fool, you've brought it on yourself! I told you to shut up! Oh my hat!” The words came quickfire, on a high-pitched shout. “They'll hang you, and I shan't care a damn. And after it's over they'll find out you were only being a noble fathead and they'll hang me. Then it'll be Claudia's turn. They'll find something in that room—something I couldn't see and can't remember looking for.” The voice rose to a shrill scream.
“They'll use a microscope!”

Crisp caught him as he flopped forward. He laid him on the floor, whipped out a knife and cut his collar and tie.

“He's coming round! Stand by to take him upstairs, put him on his bed and ring for the doctor. The arrest is washed out.”

When they had taken Ralph away, Querk spoke in the manner of one proposing a vote of thanks.

“I am sure, Chief Constable, we shall all be grateful that you have taken that course!” he declaimed. “Young Cornboise is as sane as you or I, but he is definitely neurotic. He needs a prolonged course of treatment in sympathetic surroundings. You observe how the dear boy is torturing himself with visions of myself being hanged—hanged forsooth!—in his stead. For a crime he himself committed in his imagination.”

“Imagination didn't kill Watlington—between five and five thirty,” grunted Crisp.

Querk wore an expression of reproof.

“The force of your remark is not lost upon me, Chief Constable. Before we can claim any progress, we must probe the movement of every person who was in the house, who might have been in the house, or who might have been concealed in the garden. The golden rule—”

“Quite so. Let's get back to your leaving the library—”

“The golden rule in a case like this—don't you think, Chief Constable?—is for everyone concerned—
everyone
—to avoid saying anything which he might later come to regret.”

For the moment, Crisp was flattened out. In that moment an old guerilla maxim flashed up: ‘Avoid engaging the enemy until you know his immediate objective.'

“I trust that no word of mine—” began Crisp. Realising that he was beginning to talk like Querk, he broke off. “Look here, Mr. Querk, I'm sure you appreciate my difficulties. I—”

“Of course I do, my dear Colonel! Perhaps some of the difficulties will disappear if we put our heads together. Onlookers, as we know, often see more of the game. Confess, now—you are whipping up courage to ask me for proof that I did not myself murder my poor old friend.”

An explosive cough from young Benscombe delayed Crisp's agreement.

“As a matter of routine—”

“Precisely!” agreed Querk. “For that very reason there need be no hesitation on your part. Lord Watlington was killed between five and five thirty, says the doctor, and while we know that such statements can be at best an approximation, we know in fact that, on my own admission, I left around two or three minutes of five thirty.”

“Excellent! You're lightening my load, Mr. Querk. Did one of the maids or anyone see you leave?”

“I cannot say. And it is hardly worth our while to ask them. It would carry our investigation no further, unless the maid entered the library as soon as I had left it.”

Crisp nodded, acknowledging that Querk had made a point. The latter continued:

“On the fantastic hypothesis of my guilt, we have to consider motive and behaviour. As to motive, I have lost not only a dear friend, but also my most valuable client who, as you are aware, has left me nothing in his Will.”

“Good! That disposes of motive.” Crisp wanted to get on to the behaviour.

“Not wholly, if I may say so!” corrected Querk. “We must shrink from no absurdity, Colonel. Have I perchance we must ask ourselves—have I robbed my client? Was I on the verge of exposure? In the course of more than twenty five years, securities have passed backwards and forwards through my hands, aggregating tens of millions. Have I helped myself to an illicit half per cent? That is an avenue which routine must surely forbid us to leave unexplored. You will not ask me to be judge in my own cause. I will refer you to the National and Mutual Bank, through whom every single transaction was effected.”

He was making a mayoral address of it. Behind the platitudes, Crisp suspected, lurked a technique. The watery eyes were not the eyes of a fool. They were watching his reactions and missing nothing.

“To continue our little charade, Colonel, I must claim that, in my rôle of murderer, my behaviour has a certain—ah—originality. Another man confesses to my crime. Do I thank my guardian angel? On the contrary, I positively lay information against myself, information which neither you nor anyone else possessed, my dear Colonel—that I was myself on the scene of the crime at a relevant time. I stultify the confession by asserting, as it were, my own prior right to conviction.”

Crisp laughed, prolonged the laugh for diplomatic reasons. This unusual man was using the police as his stooge, making them ask the questions he wished to be asked. Or was he, after all, the ponderous idiot he appeared to be?

“As a red-handed murderer, I am somewhat miscast. That does not prove that I am innocent. We have yet to consider the question of conspiracy. Is mine the mastermind directing the nefarious activities of others? Do I receive a furtive—er—rake-off—from the large fortune of which the young couple will presently take possession—following their marriage, of course?”