Who Pays the Piper? (29 page)

“What did he
say?”

“He said—and, as I was telling you, I found it difficult to believe my own ears, only he spoke so very distinctly, though not in a very loud voice——”

“Mrs. O'Hara—
what did he say?”

“He said, ‘I saw you put the pearls into Cathy's bag'.”

CHAPTER XLII

Everyone except Frank Abbott made some sound or movement. Lamb said, “
What!”
Cathy drew in her breath in a sob. Bill Carrick said something short and sharp. Susan made no audible sound. A shudder swept her from head to foot. Frank Abbott's eyes were upon her. He looked, and looked away. Then he wrote down what Mrs. O'Hara had said.

To everyone's surprise Cathy spoke. She turned her eyes upon Inspector Lamb and spoke to him with the simplicity and earnestness of a child.

“That was how he got Susan to say she would marry him. He had the pearls out to show to the Veres and the Micklehams, and I had to put them away in the safe. Afterwards he said that some of them were gone. He sent for Susan and made her look in my bag, and the pearls were there. He said if Susan would marry him, he wouldn't prosecute. But I wouldn't have let her do it—I really wouldn't. I was ill—but I wouldn't have let her marry him.”

Old Lamb looked at her kindly. When he was not angry his voice could be soft. He said,

“That's all right, Miss O'Hara—I'm sure you wouldn't. And now I'd like your mother to go on.”

Mrs. O'Hara murmured “Cathy darling!” and proceeded.

“You can imagine what I felt like. I really couldn't go away after that. But of course I didn't want to stand in a draught, so I stepped inside and pulled the door to behind me—there is just room behind the curtain. Do you want me to tell you just what they said?”

“Yes, please. Who else was there?”

“Oh, Mr. Dale. And he said, ‘What are you talking about?' And Mr. Phipson said, ‘You know very well what I am talking about. You put those pearls in Cathy's bag on Saturday morning. She left the bag on a chair, and you put them in while she was over there at her table with her back to you.' Mr. Dale said, ‘And where were you?' Mr. Phipson said the far door was ajar. Mr. Dale said, ‘Eavesdropping, Monty?' and Mr. Phipson said there wasn't anything to hear, but he'd seen what he had seen, and perhaps Miss Susan Lenox would be interested. That was when Mr. Dale really got angry. He used the most dreadful language, and I hope you won't expect me to repeat it, for I don't think I could—such very odd words—it really didn't sound at all nice.”

“I'm sure it didn't,” said the Inspector heartily. “Will you please go on?”

Mrs. O'Hara went on.

“I felt very awkward indeed. It was most unpleasant. Mr. Dale said, ‘You little rat! Do you think you can blackmail me? I could have smashed you any time this year.' I looked between the curtains—there was just a little space, you know—and Mr. Dale was in his chair and Mr. Phipson standing at the end of the writing-table on Mr. Dale's right between him and the fire. Mr. Dale looked frightfully angry, and Mr. Phipson was shaking. Mr. Dale took some papers out of a drawer and banged them down in front of him and said, ‘It's all here. Did you think you could steal from me without my finding you out? Robson's contract'—I think it was Robson he said—‘you made two hundred out of that. And a hundred from Mather. And how much did you sell me for to Levinsky over the last consignment for Spain? If you've forgotten, you'll find it all here. You've been selling me and double-crossing me for years, and now I'm going to smash you!' He got up whilst he was speaking and went over to the fire. I thought he was going to ring the bell, and Mr. Phipson thought so too. He called out to Mr. Dale to wait, and he put his hand down and took something out of one of the drawers. It was that drawer on your right, Inspector—the second one from the top. I didn't see which one it was at the time, but I did afterwards, because the drawer was open. And I didn't see what he took out, but of course it was the pistol. And of course Mr. Dale didn't see anything, because he had his back to him.”

“Go on, Mrs. O'Hara.”

“Mr. Dale turned round and came back again. I don't think now that he really meant to ring the bell—I think he just meant to frighten Mr. Phipson. Well, he came back and sat down in his chair again, just where you are sitting, Inspector. Mr. Phipson had come round to this side of the table, because when Mr. Dale turned he had backed away from him as if he was afraid. Mr. Dale was sitting at the table with the papers in front of him, and Mr. Phipson was between him and me with his right hand in his pocket—and of course if I had known that he had a pistol——”

“You didn't see the pistol, Mrs. O'Hara?”

“Not then, Inspector, or of course I should have thought it my duty to warn Mr. Dale.”

“Go on.”

“Mr. Dale said, ‘Well? Anything to say for yourself, rat?'—and of course that was a very offensive way of speaking. And Mr. Phipson said, ‘It's all a dreadful mistake, and if you'll listen to me, I can explain.' Mr. Dale said, ‘Explain nix!'—at least that's what I thought he said. And then he said, ‘You can make your explanations to the police. I'm ringing them up here and now.' The telephone was on his right. He couldn't reach it because his chair was pushed back from the table. I don't know whether he really meant to telephone or not, but he turned that way and he began to get up, and Mr. Phipson shot him. He took his hand out of his pocket and ran in quite close and shot him.”

“You'll swear to that?”

“Oh, yes, Inspector—I saw it. And of course it was a most terrible shock. Mr. Dale fell down out of his chair—he was just getting up, and he fell right down with a crash. I didn't seem to be able to do anything except stand quite still. It was really quite a horrible experience, and I must say that Mr. Phipson's behaviour shocked me very much. Such a quiet little man, and so obliging, but he really behaved in the most callous manner. He didn't even feel Mr. Dale's pulse. In fact he seemed to think only of himself. It shocked me dreadfully.”

“What did he do?”

“He took out his pocket handkerchief, and wiped the pistol with it, and put it down on the table.”

“Will you show me where?”

Mrs. O'Hara indicated a spot, and he nodded.

“Go on.”

“Then he grabbed up the papers and ran out of the room by the farther door.”

“And you, Mrs. O'Hara?”

She looked at him with some reproach.

“Well, naturally, I went to see if poor Mr. Dale was really dead, and of course I saw at once that he was—I was with a hospital, you know, in France during the war. So when I saw that there was nothing I could do I came away, because I naturally didn't wish to have Cathy and Susan mixed up in such an unpleasant affair.”

Lamb looked at her sternly.

“You did very wrong, Mrs. O'Hara.”

“Oh, no—I don't think so. It would have been most unpleasant for two young girls to be brought into a murder case. I thought it would be much better for everybody if it was suicide, and I think so still.”

The Inspector's colour deepened alarmingly. Frank Abbott bent his head.

“
Suicide?
Madam, how could it be suicide—with the revolver on the table and completely out of his reach?”

An expression of surprise flitted across Mrs. O'Hara's face.

“Do you know, I never thought about that,” she said. “What a pity! Because I could so easily have put it on the floor beside him, or even in his hand.”

Lamb's very neck became suffused. He opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. The inadequacy of words held him dumb. He heard Mrs. O'Hara say with a sigh, “So I came away,” and at this he roused himself.

“You went out through the glass door?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did you shut it behind you?”

“I don't think I did—oh, no, I left it open.”

“And how did you return to the Little House?”

“I ran along the terrace and down the steps at the other end.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I thought I heard someone coming.”

Bill Carrick said in a puzzled voice, “Would that be me? I don't quite see——”

“Not
you,”
said Frank Abbott, looking up. “You must have crossed the terrace while Mrs. O'Hara was behind the curtain or returning to the shelter of the curtain, because the glass door wasn't open then. By the time you got to the side window and looked in Mrs. O'Hara had opened the door and was out on the terrace. What she heard must have been Miss Lenox crossing the terrace below her. She went the other way and missed her, and you came along from the window and found the glass door open. It all fits in.” He looked at his Inspector and got a frown, because, whether it fitted or not, it wasn't his place to say so.

Lamb rose to his feet clothed with authority.

“The question now is,” he said—“where is Mr. Phipson?”

It was as he spoke that a most curious sound of bumping and scuffling made itself heard. The door was bounced open, banging back against the wall and thence rebounding, and Mr. Montague Phipson shot into the room propelled by the toe of Vincent Bell's right boot. The square American pattern lent itself admirably to this display of force. Mr. Phipson, clawing at the air, fetched up against the Inspector's massive form. He clawed and clutched at the Inspector. Vincent Bell's voice followed him.

“The little skunk's been trying to blackmail me, Captain. I'm giving him in charge.”

Mr. Phipson straightened himself. He stood back a pace, recovered his dangling glasses, and opened his mouth to speak.

But the Inspector spoke first. His hand fell upon a shrinking shoulder. His voice came loud upon shrinking ears.

“Montague Phipson, I arrest you for the murder of Lucas Dale, and I warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”

CHAPTER XLIII

Two days later, in the middle of the afternoon, Frank Abbott walked up to the front door of the Little House and knocked upon it. He looked like any young man who has come to pay a social call. There was nothing about the set of his coat to suggest that it harboured notebook and fountain pen. His well cut shoes shone with polish. His hair was a reminder of the fact that his nickname of Fug had been gained by what his schoolfellows considered an excessive devotion to hair oil.

Cathy opened to him and showed him a pale, scared face which brightened a little when he said, “Please don't look like that—I've really only come to say goodbye.”

Reassuring, but really quite unnecessary. A funny little spark of pride flicked up in Cathy's mind. Policemen didn't come and say good-bye. The inquest on Lucas Dale had been yesterday. The inquest on Cora de Lisle was to have been at two o'clock this afternoon in Ledlington, which meant that the London police had no more to do with King's Bourne and its affairs, and that Mr. Abbott could very well have caught an afternoon train and gone back to town.

She took him into the drawing-room, where Mrs. O'Hara appeared delighted to see him. Instead of being on the sofa she was sitting up in an arm-chair with her knitting in a billow of pale pink wool upon her knees. Susan and Bill Carrick were not there. Frank Abbott's light eyes went round the room, found it empty of all he had hoped for, and came back to Mrs. O'Hara's welcoming smile.

“Mr. Abbott—how nice of you! Draw up that chair and sit down.… And now you can tell us what happened at the inquest. I can't help feeling interested, you know, though I would not have gone to it for the world, and nor would Susan or Cathy. I know people do all sorts of extraordinary things nowadays, but an inquest always seems to me to be most unsuitable for a woman. Of course we were obliged to go to the one on Mr. Dale because of having to give evidence—and I'm sure Dr. Matthews made it as easy for all of us as he possibly could—the Coroner, you know—such a very old friend, and his brother my own doctor, always so kind. He succeeded Dr. Carrick in the practice—Bill's father—but of course we knew him long before that, because their great-uncle, old Sir Henry Matthews at Bransley Park, used to have them to stay in the holidays, and very nice well-behaved boys they were. Only there was no money, and the Park had to be sold.…” Mrs. O'Hara flowed on.

Frank Abbott said yes, he thought the Coroner had been very kind to her, and didn't say that she might thank her stars she wasn't in serious trouble for withholding important evidence.

Cathy, standing by the fire, wanting him to go, struck in.

“What happened in Ledlington? That's what you came to tell us, isn't it?”

Frank Abbott half turned, let his cool glance slide over her in the way she so much disliked, and said,

“It didn't take long. They brought in a verdict of wilful murder against Phipson.”

Cathy shuddered.

“Did he—do it?”

“Oh, yes—there wasn't any doubt about that after Mrs. O'Hara had told her story. He must have come to the far door in the study whilst the Inspector was reading Lily Green's statement over to her before getting her to sign it. When he heard that she had actually seen Cora de Lisle by the open window just after the shot was fired he must have realized his danger. She might have seen him.”

“Lily saw Miss de Lisle run past the window coming from the terrace after the shot,” said Cathy. “Do you think she did see him?”

“I don't know. I think it happened this way. Dale had given her a fifty-pound note, but he had three others in his note-case, and she had probably seen them. Then she had a drink at the Magpie, and thought what a fool she'd been to let him down so light, and I think she went back to see what more she could get. We shall never know exactly what happened. She probably saw Phipson talking to Dale—she'd never have passed that open window without looking in. She may have seen the murder, rushed on towards the terrace, and then turned back in a panic because she heard Carrick coming up the garden. But I think it's much more likely that she heard the shot as she was coming round to the glass door, and that she then ran back along the way that she had come. She may have looked in at the window as she passed and seen what Carrick saw a moment later—Dale's hand and arm stretched out along the floor from behind the writing-table. When I went to see her I was sure she knew that Dale was dead.”