Suspects—Nine (32 page)

“We can tell the hand by the writing and the machine by the typing,” explained Wilkinson, and Renfield, who had unlocked the bureau drawer and was in the act of lifting out the typewriter, nearly dropped it in his surprise.

“I don't believe it, that's all rot,” he protested.

Wilkinson took the machine from him and put it on the table. He inserted a sheet of paper. Renfield looked as if he wanted to protect but Bobby was watching him closely and he said nothing. Wilkinson typed a few words. Then he said,

“Seems like the machine, all right. The loop of the ‘e' is filled up, same as in the anonymous letter, and there's a defect in the crossbar of the capital ‘T' that looks the same. We shall have to ask you to let us take the machine for closer examination. The experts will be able to say for certain.”

Renfield began to splutter indignation, protests, denials. Wilkinson lifted a severe official hand.

“Now, now, sir,” he said. “All that's getting us nowhere.”

“I shall consult my lawyers,” Renfield threatened.

“For you to say, sir,” Wilkinson retorted. “Sensible thing to do, as a rule, though they do charge something wicked.”

Bobby had been stooping down to look within the opened drawer. He saw a cardboard box at the back, almost hidden behind a huddle of cleaning rags and two bottles of typewriter oil, one quite empty and one half full. There was a stain of oil on the wood of the drawer at the side, and Bobby said,

“Had an accident with the oil?”

“What about it?” snapped Renfield.

“Oh, nothing, I was just wondering,” Bobby answered. “Those rags look a bit oily.”

“One of the bottles of oil got upset and I mopped the mess up with those rags, if you want to know,” Renfield said.

“Yes, I thought it looked like that,” Bobby agreed. “Keep the gun in that cardboard box? May I take it out?”

Without waiting for the required permission, exercising great care, using a clean handkerchief in handling the box, Bobby lifted it.

“Feels light,” he remarked.

“It's not there,” admitted Renfield gloomily. “I missed it some days ago. Some one must have taken it.”

“Ah,” said Wilkinson with deep meaning.

Bobby said,

“Wiser, sir, if you had told us at the time it was missing.”

“Well, how was I to know you would come messing round?” grumbled Renfield. “I didn't see any sense telling you the thing had gone.”

It was possible, Bobby thought, he had simply been afraid of drawing suspicion on himself. Or was it, perhaps, that there was another, a stronger, a more fatal reason for his silence, that it was, in fact, he who had used the weapon, and that afterwards in some way Martin had obtained possession. Points to be cleared up, Bobby told himself, points the Public Prosecutor might make much of. Renfield by now was looking very uncomfortable indeed.

“What was the good of saying anything?” he muttered. “I didn't know who had taken it. I don't know what's become of it.”

“Well, we do,” said Wilkinson, grimly: “We have it.” Renfield gave a little gasping cry. Bobby said,

“We had better have the drawer just as it is.”

He began to wrap it up carefully. Wilkinson, looking rather puzzled, said,

“What for? We know it was there, we know it's gone.”

“There ought to be expert examination, I think,” Bobby said, and when Wilkinson still seemed inclined to protest, he glanced at Renfield and added: “I'll explain later.”

“If it's dabs you mean, his'll be there all right, why not? it's his drawer,” Wilkinson grumbled, but made no further attempt to object. He turned to Renfield: “Get you to make a statement now, sir, if you don't mind. You understand we may want to use it in evidence.”

“I've no idea who took the pistol, some one did, I don't know who, that's all I can say,” Renfield grumbled. “I've missed things before. In a place like this—”

He left the sentence unfinished and Wilkinson proceeded to take his statement. It was some time before it was finished. Then Wilkinson and Bobby left, taking with them typewriter, drawer and contents and the signed and completed statement, and Renfield himself. The last thing they saw was the occupant of the room across the landing peering down at them over the banister rail from eyes full of a kind of awed and yet triumphant wonder.

“Says I told you so' just as loud as she knows how,” Wilkinson muttered to Bobby. “She'll be telling everybody in the house all about it soon—and more, too.”

“From envy, hatred and malice and from all uncharitableness and from one-room flat-lets,” Bobby murmured, “Good Lord, deliver us. How would it be,” he added, “if I ran back and warned her to keep her tongue still?”

Wilkinson nodded agreement. Bobby ran back upstairs and delivered a stern official warning, which impressed but was not well received. Bobby returned and they all drove off.

At Scotland Yard, they duly deposited Renfield, the typewriter, the drawer and the statement, and then drove on to that more imposing building for more prosperous people where, on the top floor reserved for the less prosperous of the more prosperous, Lady Alice occupied a three-room flat.

They knocked, but had to knock twice again before Lady Alice opened the door to them.

She stood there looking at them, grim and frowning, the fire lurking always in her eyes ready, as it seemed, to leap to flame at any moment.

“Come together this time, have you?” she said. “Well, what do you want now?” Then she looked at Bobby and said, “Want to do some more sketching here?”

Without waiting for a reply she turned and went back, through a tiny lobby, into the sitting-room. They, in their turn, followed without waiting to be asked. She sat down and lighted a cigarette. She did not ask them to be seated and sat watching them with her dark, sardonic glance. They did not speak, either, and a distant clock slowly struck the hour. Lady Alice made a slow gesture with the hand that held the cigarette towards the mantelpiece.

“That one's gone, too,” she said. “I can see you're looking.”

Indeed, the moment they entered the room Bobby had noticed that the place above the mantelpiece where the two successive curved Eastern knives had hung, was now vacant. But he had noticed, also, the evening paper flung a little too carelessly on the table and that the lower part of the open page seemed to be covering something.

“I think, perhaps, it may be here,” he said.

He put out his hand and moved the paper. The knife lay there, unsheathed, the dull sheen of the steel of the naked blade ominous in the glare of the electric light above. Lady Alice raised a hand and let it hover above the weapon. She did not lift it but there was a kind of friendliness, almost of affection, in that gesture, as though this were an old, a trusted companion that she greeted.

“Newly cleaned, well cleaned,” she said slowly. “Newly sharpened, sharpened well.”

Wilkinson looked uneasily at Bobby. Bobby was watching closely the dark and formidable woman. She seemed to have forgotten their presence. It was almost with an air of benediction that her hand hovered over that cruelly gleaming steel. Wilkinson said,

“Madam, I must warn you—”

But at that word ‘warn' she gave him a glance so fierce, and so disdainful, that he stopped abruptly and then began again,

“My lady, from information received—”

“Cut the cackle,” she interrupted.

“From information received we have reason to believe,” went on Wilkinson, who found official formula as comforting and strengthening as Lady Alice found it empty and futile, “that a man known to you and going by the name of William Martin, believed to have been in your employ for certain purposes, visited you here recently and has not been seen since.”

“No, he hasn't, has he?” said Lady Alice.

“Well, then, what's become of him? Where is he?” demanded Wilkinson.

Lady Alice's smile grew grimmer still. Wilkinson involuntarily drew back a step as she fixed that terrifying glance of hers upon him.

“He thought he would try to blackmail—Me,” she said. “No one tries that on me twice—once, perhaps, but not twice.”

“Where is he?” Wilkinson asked again. “It is believed he never left here.”

“He didn't,” agreed Lady Alice. “I saw to that.” She added when they still watched her: “You can have a look round, if you like. If you're clever enough, perhaps you'll find him—or what's left of him.”

Doubtfully, Wilkinson looked at Lady Alice. Her features remained impassive. He glanced sideways at Bobby, who, too, was wondering uneasily what Lady Alice meant. She looked at the moment capable of many things, as if, indeed, it was a very rash blackmailer who would have thought of her as a possible victim. Only, how far had her resentment carried her? Wilkinson nodded to Bobby and then towards the door. Bobby understood and went quietly out of the room and across the passage to the bedroom opposite. Wilkinson picked up the knife from the table. He thought it more prudent not to leave Lady Alice alone, more than prudent not to leave that ugly-looking knife lying within her reach. A knife- thrust remains a knife-thrust, whether the hand that aims it is masculine or feminine, and three inches of cold steel may well open a door to let a life escape. Moreover, a knife misses its mark less easily than does a bullet. So Wilkinson felt happier when the weapon was safely in his own possession, and only a faint twitch at the corner of Lady Alice's lips showed that she noticed.

In the bedroom Bobby glanced around. In one corner there stood a large, black travelling trunk. He went across to it a little quickly and opened it. It was nearly empty and what it held was of no interest. There was a large wardrobe, too, and in one corner a built-in cupboard. He opened the wardrobe first. It contained only clothing. He turned to the built-in cupboard, and noticed now that it was fastened by two bolts on the outside, recently placed in position. Cupboards are seldom bolted from the outside. His heart beating a little faster than usual, Bobby drew them and opened the door. A pale face was palely visible in the dim interior and a faint and broken voice whispered,

“Please let me out.”

Bobby gasped, put out his hand, hauled forth the speaker, and saw that it was Martin. Bobby did not say a word for the good reason that all power of speech had left him. Martin emitted a faint whimper,

“Thank God, it's you, Mr. Owen.” Then he said, as Bobby still remained speechless, “Don't let her get me again.”

“What on earth,” said Bobby as he began to recover the use of his tongue. Then he saw Martin was wearing handcuffs: “Good Lord,” he said, and collapsed into silence again.

“She done it,” said Martin, almost crying; “she's treated me something shameful.”

“Come along,” said Bobby.

“I'll have the law on her,” said Martin.

Bobby took him by the arm and led, propelled, supported him into the sitting-room.

“Found him, have you?” asked Lady Alice. Then she added severely, “And I hope that'll teach you a lesson—poking about in a lady's bedroom.”

“Good—jumping—Jehoshaphat,” said Wilkinson with a long, slow pause between each word.

Martin sniffled.

A miserable object he looked, indeed, as he stood there, upheld by Bobby, blinking, sniffling, unwashed, unshaven, unbrushed, one end of his collar flapping loosely, his manacled hands held awkwardly in front of him. Wilkinson continued to stare. Lady Alice lighted a fresh cigarette.

“You can take him away, if you like,” she said generously. “I don't want him.”

“What... which... I mean... well... now then,” began Wilkinson, finding it difficult to put his bewildered thoughts into words. “What's it all mean?” he demanded, apparently of the universe in general.

The universe seemed unprepared with any comment. Lady Alice yawned. Martin tried to wipe his nose with his still-manacled hands. Wilkinson said,

“Where's the key for those things?”

“There isn't one,” said Lady Alice. Then she added. “None needed. They're a trick pair. A friend of mine, an amateur conjurer, gave me them years ago. They hold fast against a direct pull but if you twist upwards—like this”-—she showed how—-“they open at once.”

Martin was apparently too dazed or too dispirited to take this in. Bobby took hold of the handcuffs and twisted them, as directed. They opened at once. Bobby put them on the table and Martin took advantage of his restored liberty to produce a very dirty handkerchief and wipe a still dirtier face.

“Oh, well,” said Wilkinson.

“How was I to know?” asked Martin, recovering sufficiently to direct a malevolent glance at the unconcerned Lady Alice.

“Oh, well, come now,” said Wilkinson, “what's been happening, anyhow?” He directed this question to Lady Alice but she took no notice. To Martin, Wilkinson said, “Well, what's it all mean? You tell us. Sit down—”

Martin gave a sort of little yelp at the suggestion. Lady Alice said,

“I don't suppose he cares much about sitting down just at present. Standing up or lying flat on the face are the positions he prefers for the time.”

“A-i-eee,” said Martin in a sort of confirmatory wail. 

“What have you been doing to him?” demanded Wilkinson.

“Put him across the table and gave him a dozen of the best where I thought it would do most good,” explained Lady Alice.

“Took me trousers down, first, she did,” said Martin, almost sobbing. “Shoved a blinking towel in me mouth so I couldn't make a sound.”

“I respected the proprieties,” declared Lady Alice. “Your trousers, yes. But not your pants.”

“Pants ain't no protection,” Martin pointed out resentfully.

“Well. Now then. Oh, jim-jumping Jehoshaphat,” said Wilkinson, expressing thus the utter helplessness he felt.