They Found Him Dead (30 page)

"Yes, Mr. Roberts?"

"Well, the first is that, assuming the Leighton I knew is the Leighton you're after, I doubt whether he'd ever have got himself sobered up enough to tackle a job like this. Maybe we're not talking of the same man. Let it go. The second snag is the number of murders. It's too steep, Superintendent. The man who'd set out to commit no less than three murders so that his wife could inherit a fortune sure must be a mastermind! You can take it from me, all that amount of nerve don't fit my Leighton, and from what Mrs. Kane's been telling us about the guy her great-niece married, it don't fit him either. Why, the man who could plan deviltry on a scale as grand as that must have brains enough to make a fortune for himself!"

"It doesn't always follow that a clever man chooses an honest way to make a fortune, Mr. Roberts. I admit the improbability of his planning three murders, and I believe that if he is at the bottom of this case he didn't plan three. It is far more likely that, in common with Mr. Kane, he took it for granted that his wife stood next in succession to Mr. Clement Kane."

Roberts regarded him with a faint smile. "You've got it fixed in your mind Mr. Silas Kane and Mr. Clement were murdered by the same man, haven't you, Superintendent? Does it ever strike you there's a queer difference in the methods employed?"

"In my profession, Mr. Roberts, we guard against getting fixed ideas. I have as yet no proof that Mr. Silas Kane was murdered."

"Guess he was murdered, all right; but whether you'll ever know by whom is another matter. I've a hunch that the man who pushed him off that cliff edge is dead himself now." He glanced at Jim. "A while back, Kane, you said something that was maybe sounder than you knew. You said: 'Murder begets murder.' I believe in this case it did."

"You take a great interest in this case, Mr. Roberts?" said Hannasyde.

"Yes, Superintendent. It's a dandy little problem."

"Have you had much experience of crime?"

Roberts regarded him with his head slightly on one side. "Now, why do you ask me that?"

"You seem to look upon it almost from a professional standpoint."

"You're trying to flatter me, Superintendent. I've been—interested in crime for a good many years; but I don't aspire to your standards. But in my experience a murderer has only one trick in his repertoire. In this case you have one man killed so neatly you'll never prove it was murder; and another killed so blatantly there's no possibility it could have been anything but murder. Unless I'm mistaken, the two methods indicate two very different types of minds. One's subtle; one ain't."

"Aren't you rather leaving out of account the attempt upon Mr. Kane's life? Doesn't it fall into the same category as Mr. Silas Kane's murder?"

"Why, no, I think not, Superintendent. The accident to the
Seamew
and the accident to the car were tricks that could easily go wrong, and did go wrong. They look to me like a plain guy trying to be clever. Mr. Silas Kane's murderer thought of a plan where there was no room for mistake. You have to hand it to him."

"If you don't mind, sir, I think we've had about enough of this conversation," interposed Jim. "It isn't very pleasant for my great-aunt."

Roberts turned at once with a swift apology on his lips, but Emily said fiercely: "I've supposed all along that my son was murdered. Not that the police would ever prove it. The Mansells! They didn't do it! Who stood to gain by his death?" She gave a short laugh and folded her hands closer in her lap. Patricia, coming out onto the terrace through the drawing-room window, thought that for a moment she looked almost terrible, a little stout old lady with a rigid back, and eyes like blue ice.

There was a constrained silence. "It can't be proved, Aunt, and—after all, Clement's dead," said Jim uncomfortably.

Her tight mouth relaxed slightly. "Yes. He's dead," she answered.

Hannasyde, watching her, said bluntly: "Do you seriously believe that he killed your son, Mrs. Kane?"

Her stare abolished him; she replied in her curtest, most expressionless voice: "What I believe is my own concern. It won't help you. You'll never prove anything."

Patricia, who had been standing quite still just outside the drawing-room window, came forward, relieving a sudden tension. "I think this is the letter you want, Mrs. Kane."

Emily glanced at it. "
I
don't want it. Give it to the superintendent."

Hannasyde took it with a word of thanks and carefully inspected the postmark on the envelope. He withdrew a folded letter and gave it back to Miss Allison.

"If I may keep the envelope, Mrs. Kane, that's all I want."

"Keep anything you like," said Emily. "I don't mind."

"Thank you." Hannasyde put the letter in his pocketbook and got up. "That's all, then, for the present."

Jim accompanied him through the house to the front door.

"Thanks for my bodyguard, Superintendent. Between him and my stepbrother I ought to be pretty safe."

"I hope so," Hannasyde answered.

"They're a bit of a nuisance," said Jim cheerfully; "but at least your nice Sergeant Trotter's presence does augur a certain measure of belief in my story."

"I'm sorry if I led you to think that I didn't believe your story."

"Very handsomely said, Superintendent. Do you, by any chance?"

"Believe you? Why not, Mr. Kane?"

Jim laughed. "It only dawned on me, after I'd got back here, that you probably suspected me of staging the whole show just to put you off the scent. I can prove my innocence by requesting you to inquire of the personnel at my office whether my hands were dirty or not when I walked in the back entrance."

"I'm afraid that's no proof at all," replied Hannasyde with his slow smile. "You might have worn a pair of rubber gloves, mightn't you?"

"Damn! I never thought of that," said Jim. "I must remain a suspect. It's comforting to think that I'm in the best of company."

Hannasyde returned a light answer and took his leave, catching the next omnibus back to Portlaw.

He was met at the police station by Inspector Carlton, who hailed his arrival with satisfaction, announcing, not without pride, that he had news to report.

"That alibi of Mr. Paul Mansell's," he said. "Well, we've shook it, Superintendent. Your outside chance came off. I've got a young fellow here who's prepared to swear he saw Mr. Mansell's Lagonda drawn up by the tradesmen's gate at Cliff House at 3.30 P.M. on the day Mr. Clement was shot."

"That's interesting," said Hannasyde, hanging up his hat. "Reliable witness?"

"I'd say so. Garage hand. He's waiting in my office."

"Right, I'll see him at once."

The witness, a tall youth with a shock of resilient brown hair, was quite clear in his evidence. He told Hannasyde that, having Saturday afternoon leave from Jones's Garage in Portlaw, he had taken his young lady for a spin on his motor bike and had passed along the coast road by Cliff House at about half-past three, the time being fixed in his mind by the fact of the said young lady having kept him hanging about in Portlaw till it was a question whether they could reach Bransome, farther down the coast, in time for tea or not.

"Yes, I see," said Hannasyde. "You say you saw Mr. Mansell's car outside Cliff House?"

"That's right, sir. A four-and-a-half-litre Lagonda it is."

"Did you notice its number?"

Mr. Bert Wilson scratched his head reflectively.

"Well, I don't know as I actually noticed it, so to speak. I know the car, see? Come to that, I know the number of it, too, which is——"

"No, that isn't what I mean," interrupted Hannasyde. "There are many Lagondas on the road, after all. Are you quite sure that this one belonged to Mr. Paul Mansell?"

Mr. Wilson had no doubt of this. He offered to take his dying oath it was Mr. Mansell's car, adding: "I work at Jones's Garage, see? 'Smatter of fact, when I saw the car parked there, outside Cliff House, I passed the remark to my young lady, 'That's one of our cars, that is,' I said. Well, what I mean is, we had her in for oil and grease only two days before. We do all Mr. Paul Mansell's work for him. Why, I know that Lagonda backwards, as you might say."

"Was anyone with the car when you passed it?"

"No sir. Parked with her rear wheels just off the road, she was, just by the tradesmen's entrance, as my young lady will bear me out."

Hannasyde favoured him with one of his long searching looks. "Do you know what happened at Cliff House on Saturday, August tenth?" he asked.

"What, Mr. Clement Kane being done in like he was, sir? Yes sir, of course. Caused quite a bit of talk in the town it has. Well, what I mean is——"

"Why have you waited till now to come forward with this information?"

Mr. Wilson shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked embarrassed. "It's like this, you see, sir. I didn't make nothing of it, not at first. Kind of slipped my mind, if you know what I mean. Then I see the notice about anyone being able to give information, and I shows it to my young lady, and she says at once, 'Bert,' she says, 'do you know what?' 'No,' I says; 'what?' 'You ought to tell the police about Mr. Paul Mansell's car,' she says, 'that's what.' 'Oh, all right, Doris,' I says—that being her name—not that I'm one to go poking into what don't concern me, because it's what I don't hold with and never did. So I tells Mr. Jones, see? and he says as how I ought to come round to the police station right off, which I done."

"And now let's see Pretty Paul talk himself out of that one!" remarked Sergeant Hemingway, when he heard of this interlude.

"You're more prejudiced against Paul Mansell than I've ever known you to be against anyone," said Hannasyde.

"Not prejudiced," said the sergeant firmly. "I never let myself get prejudiced. All I say is that he's a nasty, slimy, double-faced tick who'd murder his own grandmother if he saw a bit of money to be got out of it."

"Very moderate," said Hannasyde, smiling.

"Well," said the sergeant, nettled, "it stands out a mile, doesn't it? Now, if you weren't my superior officer——"

Hannasyde sighed. "Never mind that bit: I've got it off by heart. What would you say if I weren't your superior officer?"

"I'd say," replied the sergeant promptly, "that you must be nuts to go round suspecting a decent young fellow like Jim Kane when you've got an out-and-out dirty swine like Paul Mansell fair stinking under your very nose. Of course," he added, "that's only what I'd say if you weren't my superior officer. As it is——"

"I do wish you'd try and get it out of your head that I suspect Jim Kane any more than I suspect any of the others. I don't. I suspect him a good deal less than I suspect some, but I try to be impartial. Have a shot at it yourself."

The sergeant cast him a reproachful glance but merely said: "Are you going to tackle Pretty Paul yourself, Chief?"

"Yes. Anything come through from the Yard for me?"

"Come to think of it, I believe something has," replied the sergeant and went to see.

He came back in a few minutes with a long envelope which he handed to the superintendent. While Hannasyde slit it open, spread open the several sheets contained in it, and read them quickly through, he stood watching him with an expression of birdlike interest. "Anything doing, Chief?" he ventured to ask presently.

"Not a great deal. The Sydney police know nothing of the Leighton I want. Mrs. Leighton is there all right. Seems to have been living there for about a year. Melbourne cables nothing known of Edwin Leighton since the end of 1933, when he was discharged from prison after serving a short term for obtaining money under false pretences. Seems to have faded out."

"Well, anyway," said the sergeant, brightening, "if he's been in prison, they'll have his fingerprints and photograph. Were they asked for?"

"Yes, if the police had them. Copies are being sent by air mail."

"Any description?"

"Not very helpful. Age, forty-two; height, five foot eleven inches; hair, brown; eyes, grey."

"Fancy that!" said the sergeant ironically. "Wife know anything of his whereabouts?"

"Apparently not." Hannasyde folded the sheets and slipped them into his pocket. "Nothing much to be done about that till we get the photograph. I'll go and call on Paul Mansell."

He walked from the police station to the offices of Kane and Mansell and after sending in his card was very soon escorted to the room at the back of the building on the first floor that was Paul's office. On his way up the stairs and down the broad corridor he took swift note of his surroundings and did not miss the door on the landing, set wide to admit the fresh air, that gave on to the iron fire-escape leading down into the yard.

Paul Mansell had his secretary with him when Hannasyde was ushered into the room, and was apparently busy with a heavy file. He did not look up immediately, but when Hannasyde walked forward to a chair by the desk, he raised his eyes and said: "Ah, good afternoon! Just a moment, if you please. Miss Jenkins, take this!"

He dictated a letter, which seemed to Hannasyde rather unimportant, and then dismissed the girl and said: "Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?"