The Dusky Hour (17 page)

“Wasn't it a little rash not to take up his references?” the colonel asked.

Mr. Hayes shrugged his shoulders, toyed again with the syphon, again rejected it in favour of the whisky bottle.

“I dare say it was,” he admitted. “United States fashion, though. Over there you judge a man for yourself by himself, not on what someone else says about him – probably hokum, anyhow. If he makes good, you keep him, if not, you fire him. Seems to work well, and gives many a poor devil a chance to make a fresh start. Over here his past hangs about him like a logging chain tied to his foot.”

“A man's present is his past,” said the colonel sententiously. “You have found Thoms satisfactory?”

“Good driver, first-class mechanic. A bit sulky, and doesn't get on too well with the other servants. Lately, though – well, nothing serious. I know I'm a bit careless about small change, and I don't count my cigars or lock them up, either. He's given me the idea lately there was something on his mind – worried. Pressed for money, too. He's had his wages in advance once or twice – I believe he's had them up to Christmas. My own idea is he's been betting. I bet myself, for that matter, but I take good care not to get into deep water. Anyhow, to talk plain United States, I was worried about him without knowing why. You remember when you were here before?”

“Yes,” said the colonel, surprised at this sudden question.

“Well, I didn't say anything at the time. I didn't quite take it in. I've been thinking about it since. You remember? I had to own up I had a .32 Colt automatic?”

“The one you gave us?” the colonel asked.

“Yes. Well, I kept it in a drawer, and I could have sworn that drawer was locked. I kept it locked; careful, too. I would have staked my last penny it was always locked. That night it wasn't. Honestly, I couldn't believe it when I put the key in and it wouldn't turn, and then I gave it a pull and the drawer came open. At the moment I put it down to forgetfulness on my part. Everyone's liable to forget. But the more I thought of it the more I was sure I remembered locking it the last time I opened it, some days back. When I came to think, I distinctly remembered letting the key slip out of my fingers. I remembered picking it up off the floor and giving the drawer a pull to make sure it was fastened.”

“What sort of lock is it?” the colonel asked.

“A Chubb. I had it put on specially. To keep private papers in. That's why I kept the automatic there. Always locked. Another thing. When I began to feel worried after you had gone, I went to have another look. I feel sure it had been disturbed – the papers in the drawer, I mean. The pistol was right at the back. You couldn't get at it without moving a lot of things.”

“Was anything missing?”

Hayes looked at the colonel a little queerly.

“It seems too silly to mention,” he said, “but I had a flashlight – electric torch made to look like a small .22 automatic. They were rather popular in the States when I was there. The idea was, you showed it to a hold-up man and scared him off and no risk of an accident. Recommended for the use of ladies. Had quite a run for a time, and then people got tired of them. I had one. I'm sure it was in that drawer. Now it isn't there. Don't see why anyone should want it, though.”

“Had you anything of value – money or jewellery in the drawer?”

“No. Only private papers; notes of investments and so on. Valuable to me, but to no one else. Another thing. I don't believe I have touched that automatic for years. It has just been lying there. I got the impression when I handed it to you it had been recently cleaned and oiled. He paused and said gently: “As it might have been after recent use.”

When Hayes had said this he relapsed into silence, and neither of the other two spoke. In the quiet room it seemed there hung the menace of a direct accusation, and presently the colonel said, a little as if speaking to himself:

“Is there anything more you think you can tell us?”

“Only,” answered Hayes, “that twice – once it was Mrs. O'Brien, my housekeeper; she's left now; and once the housemaid saw him – Thoms was in my room upstairs. Both times he had some sort of excuse for being there and I didn't hear anything at the time. But it got round to me finally, and I'm beginning to wonder why a chauffeur should go wandering upstairs to ask for orders when he knew his master was out.”

“What you are telling us sounds serious, Mr. Hayes,” the colonel said. “You realise that?”

“No, I don't,” Hayes snapped. “It's only serious if you take it seriously. That's up to you. I'm worried. I own up to that. If you can tell me I'm worried about nothing, that goes with me. Lord knows, I don't want to think Thoms a murderer. If he is, it might be me next.”

He laughed uneasily as he spoke, and filled his glass again. His capacity for absorbing whisky seemed almost to equal that of Mr. Dillon of the Cut and Come Again – almost, but not quite, since none can equal the unequalled. Bobby, watching Hayes closely, was aware of an inner conviction that the man was really afraid. Possibly that might be merely on account of the unexplained tragedy happening so near by, but fear was in him none the less.

“You don't know of any connection between Thoms and the dead man?” the colonel asked.

“Oh, no. I've told you every single last thing I know,” Hayes answered, and paused, and then added abruptly: “Finger-prints – that's what you people depend on, isn't it?”

“They provide proof of identity,” the colonel agreed.

“Well, you can have Thoms's, if you like,” Hayes said. “A wire came from my bookie the other day – a hot tip. I gave it to Thoms to read; I was with him in the garage when it came. I told him I would put a pound on for him. He had been doing a bit of repair work on the dynamo – we make our own electricity; quite a small installation, but enough for the house and the garage. Thoms is smart at those sort of jobs; he had saved me a bill for repairs and all the bother of waiting for workmen, so I thought I would let him in on the bookie's tip. His hands were a bit oily, and I noticed his finger-prints were plain on the wire when he gave it me back. Well, I never gave it another thought, but I've got the wire still. Pushed it in my pocket and found it there only yesterday.” He produced it, a finger and thumb print clearly visible. “It occurred to me that if you cared to test some of the papers I've had locked up in that drawer of mine, you could find out if Thoms has handled them at any time.”

“We could do that, perhaps,” agreed the colonel.

“Going a bit beyond our authority, perhaps,” he added uneasily, for he had a wholesome dread of what happened in England to policemen who didn't mind their step – a question in Parliament, perhaps; and that dread thought will make any official shiver in his shoes. “You would regard all information we gave you as confidential?”

“I'll promise that,” said Hayes at once. “I'll go get them.”

He left the room accordingly, and returned with papers he was holding wrapped in a handkerchief. It was a precaution Bobby admired.

“Thought I had better not confuse them with my own,” he said, noticing perhaps Bobby's quick glance.

The colonel said it was always best to be careful, and Bobby took charge of the papers, placing them carefully in one of the cellophane envelopes he had with him.

“Oh, Mr. Hayes,” he said suddenly, “might I see the key of the drawer?”

“There won't be any prints on that, you know,” Hayes said. He pulled from his pocket a bunch of keys on a ring secured by a light chain to a trouser-button. “Even if Thoms got hold of it some time and got an impression to have a duplicate made, I've used it too often since for his prints to be still on.”

“I suppose that's so. Sorry,” agreed Bobby. He gave the bunch of keys – there were twelve or fifteen of them – a casual and somewhat dispirited glance, and made no protest when Hayes slipped them back into his pocket. “You always keep the drawer key on that same bunch, I suppose?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Hayes answered. “I have left them lying about once or twice, I know. Thoms might have got hold of them, though I've no reason to think so. But if that drawer was opened – and it must have been – well, there's no sign it was forced, so I suppose a key was used.”

The colonel asked where Thoms slept. Hayes explained that he had a room over the garage, though he took all his meals in the house. Probably he would be in his room now, but he would be coming across for his supper soon, if they wanted to talk to him. The colonel thought it would be as well, and added that he would like to ask the maids a question or two. Hayes nodded, as if he fully understood, and, ringing the bell, told the girl, Aggie, who answered it, that the gentlemen wanted a little information it was possible she or cook might be able to provide.

Much impressed, Aggie accordingly escorted them to the little sitting-room Bobby knew already. Their answers to the colonel's questions soon showed that Aggie was somewhat spitefully inclined towards the chauffeur, and that Mrs. Marshall, the cook, wanted to approve of him as a seriously minded young man who had no use for flighty girls, but, all the same, found him a little difficult.

“Never says a word he can help, and it isn't natural for a young man to sit and brood the way he does,” she observed.

“Does he brood?” Bobby asked, thinking it possible that reading, study, or some hobby might account for Thoms's apparent love of solitude.

“Well, what do you call it, sitting up there alone every evening?” demanded Mrs. Marshall.

“And welcome,” added Aggie, with a most unconvincing toss of the head.

But at least from the two of them came ample confirmation of the fact that on two or three occasions Thoms  had been discovered in the upper part of the house where normally a chauffeur's duties had no occasion to call him. He had even been seen coming out of Mr. Hayes's bedroom when everyone knew Mr. Hayes was in London. However, he had always had an excuse for his presence, and at the time no one had thought much about it.

“He's been up there when no one's known,” Aggie interposed. “I've smelt baccy in Mr. Hayes's room when both him and Mrs. O'Brien were in town.”

The colonel asked the two women to say nothing about this questioning, dropped a hint about possible actions for slander he hoped would help them to observe their given promise of silence, and then he and Bobby went across to the garage.

“Hayes's story may prove important,” the colonel remarked as they walked along, “but we'll have to find if there's any link between Thoms and Bennett. Luckily there's the Cut and Come Again affair to start from. May have been some quite casual drunken quarrel, of course. But it may mean a previous connection. As soon as we get the firearms expert's report in, we shall know if Hayes's automatic was the one used. What he said about the flashlight made to look like an automatic seemed to clear up the maid's story about the two pistols.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “Mr. Hayes has a way of clearing up doubtful points before he is even asked about them.”

The colonel made no reply to this except to scratch his chin thoughtfully. Then he said:

“You asked him something about his keys?”

“Yes, sir. I noticed he said he remembered dropping the key of the drawer on the floor, as if he were speaking of a single key. Afterwards he said he kept the drawer key on the bunch he showed us, with others. Nothing in it, very likely.”

The colonel looked more thoughtful still, but by now they were at the garage door and he made no comment. The door was not fastened, and opened at once to their touch. Just within was a flight of steps leading to the upper part used as Thoms's living-quarters. At the top of the stairs was a small landing and a door, beneath which showed a thread of light. Thoms had apparently heard their entrance, and, as the colonel and Bobby reached this landing, he opened the door, switched on the bulb that lighted stairs and landing, and stood there, scowling at them.

“You again,” he said.

“There are just a few questions I would like to ask you, Thoms,” the colonel said briskly.

Thoms went back into the room and they followed him. It was a fair sized apartment, plainly though quite comfortably furnished. Heat was provided by an electric fire, with an attachment for a kettle, so that Thoms could evidently make himself a cup of tea or warm water for washing or shaving when he wished. But there was little in the room to indicate personal habits or history. There was a row of pipes – a strong odour of tobacco in the room suggested that Thoms was a heavy smoker – and there were a few books, mostly technical, a few magazines, a pile of newspapers, motor periodicals, and catalogues, that seemed die total of his personal possessions. There was not even a photograph to give a single intimate touch to the bare apartment; and all his clothing seemed either hanging on pegs or put away in a plain deal chest of drawers opposite the window. Bobby could see no suitcase or box or trunk of any kind. If Thoms chose to walk out at any minute, there would be little he need take, nothing left behind to trace him by.

Thoms had not asked them to sit down. He stood in the middle of the room, his hands deep in his pockets, glowering at them.

“I'm answering no questions,” he said abruptly and angrily. “That's final.”

“Which means, I suppose,” the colonel rapped out, “you have something to conceal?”

“Suppose what you like,” Thoms retorted.

“For one thing,” the colonel went on, “why did you try to murder Bennett the other day at the Cut and Come Again club?”

Thoms thrust his hands deeper still into his pocket, thrust his chin still further, still more aggressively forward.

“I'm answering no questions,” he repeated.