The Attic Murder, S. Fowler Wright [children's books read aloud .TXT] 📗
- Author: S. Fowler Wright
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“Because it confirms what we were nearly sure of before. We actually had a warrant made out at one time for that woman’s arrest, and then decided that the evidence wasn’t quite sufficient to get us home. We know how strong a case has to be against a girl with her looks. But if you could swear to that, it would show that she was aware what was on foot, and it might just be enough, with what we’ve got, to put her where she belongs.”
Francis looked troubled. He said: “I shouldn’t like to do that. It wouldn’t be very decent, when she was trying to keep me clear of the mess.”
Mr. Jellipot, observing a side-issue which might not be helpful, interposed before the Inspector was ready with his reply.
“Shall we keep to the present point? You think August Garten understood your position, but, beyond that, you’re not sure?”
“No. I should say some may have thought one thing, and some another. Those who were about with us most must have had some warning not to talk before me. At any rate, I never heard anything to lead me to think what they really were.”
“That,” Mr. Jellipot said, “seems to answer the question.” He turned to the Inspector to ask: “How does it look to you?”
“If you ask me,” Inspector Combridge replied, “I shouldn’t say it goes far. The type of gangster with whom Hammerton got mixed up doesn’t open his mouth to put his foot into it, even when he thinks he’s among those of his own colour. I’ve been told by a man we had among them for over two years before they guessed what his business was, that even when they’re planning a kill they won’t say anything to each other that mightn’t pass between respectable people, and they always talk as though the pretences they make to their victims are the solid truth they profess them to be to him. I suppose it makes the illusion easier to sustain, besides avoiding the risk of anything going into the wrong ears.
“Even if one of them had said something dangerous, and Mr. Hammerton had given him a blank stare in reply, he wouldn’t have thought that he wasn’t being understood. He would have thought that he was having a plain hint to keep his mouth shut by someone more discreet than himself.”
“I think,” Francis interposed, with more certainty than he had spoken before, “that some at least of them would take for granted that I was guilty, especially after the jury had come to the same conclusion. I don’t think that even Moss & Middleton thought that I was really ignorant of what had been going on, though they defended me on those lines.”
“It was a defence,” Mr. Jellipot commented, with his mild-mannered acuteness, “which incidentally — and perhaps more than incidentally to their minds — assisted that of their principal client. In fact,” he added, professional indignation raising his voice somewhat beyond its usual pitch, “you were very badly represented, or you would not be in your present predicament.”
“I expect I was. They seemed shrewd enough, in their own way, and they always seemed confident they would get me off, but they weren’t men it was easy to like. But I had no choice really, especially as Tony was paying the bill… I suppose you want me to look up his friends, and get someone to say that he knew Tony was making a fool of me. It doesn’t sound very easy to do.”
“I should put it,” Mr. Jellipot replied, “rather more widely. You should be alert for anything which might have influenced the jury’s decision had you been able to put it before them, without supposing in advance what it may be.
“I want you,” Sir Reginald added, “to go farther than that. I want you to endeavour to find out anything which is being said in those circles about Rabone’s murder, and most particularly anything which would connect Entwistle with it, or show that the two men had been associated, probably with others, in the criminal practices in which we suppose them to have been engaged. Or equally, of course, to learn anything that might tend to show that Rabone was killed because he was on the point of discovering a crime in which he was not involved himself.”
Francis Hammerton considered these proposals with something less than enthusiasm, even though he reminded himself of the debt of gratitude he owed to those who had put them forward, and the position in which he stood.
“In fact,” he said bluntly, “you want me to obtain their confidence by pretending that I was properly convicted, but have managed to wriggle out on bail, and then to betray it.”
He had August Garten in mind as he spoke, and his tone added to the effect of his words, to which his three auditors reacted in characteristic ways.
“You should not forget,” Inspector Combridge said, with a feeling that his own profession was implicitly slurred, and yet conscious that, for the first time, he had really believed in Hammerton’s innocence as he spoke, “that you are dealing with murderers and professional thieves. If they make war on society, they can’t expect it not to resist.”
“My own hesitation,” Sir Reginald said, “was on different grounds. Rabone’s fate, if we are right as to what occurred, shows that we are dealing with men who will have little scruple in what they do, if their own safety should be at stake. It appeared to me that we were asking you to undertake an extremely dangerous, as well as difficult task… But, of course, if you feel like that — - “
Mr. Jellipot, who felt that Sir Reginald was concluding in the wrong way, mildly but firmly interrupted his valuable, but sometimes headstrong client: “May I say, Mr. Hammerton, that I think, with all respect, that your conclusions go somewhat beyond the logical implications of any proposals which either Sir Reginald or myself have offered for your consideration.
“I proposed that you should commence your enquiries with an absolutely open mind, and, beyond that, I suggested the possibility of your obtaining a witness in your support, who must, of course, come forward willingly, so that the question of your betraying anyone would not arise… As to Sir Reginald’s request, it is not suggested that your previous friends were concerned in William Rabone’s murder, or even in the crimes of which it was a possible consequence, though we may have reason to think that they were sufficiently associated with those who were to know more about it than we have yet been able to learn.”
“Well,” Francis replied, overborne by his own thoughts, and the impact of these various arguments, “I don’t want you to think me ungrateful for what you’ve done, nor insensible of the value of your advice. And as to anything being dangerous, if you ever get into such a position as mine, though I don’t suggest that that’s possible — well, you’ll know that it isn’t easy to care… Yes, I understand, and you can rely on me to do what I can.”
He rose as he spoke, as though to leave an interview which had reached its natural conclusion, and the movement roused Inspector Combridge to an equal activity.
He drew an oblong slip of paper from his pocket-book.
“Before you go,” he said, “I must give you this. It’s nothing to be afraid of, but you mustn’t fail to be there.
Francis took it, and observed that it was a subpoena to attend as a witness, at 10 a.m. on the following Monday, in the case of Rex v. Entwistle, at the Magistrates’ Court.
FOR a few hours, Francis found his mind distracted from the more difficult problems which must confront it, by the immediate necessity of obtaining shelter, and a larger portion of the elementary requirements of life than his pockets held.
The money which he had had at the time of his last arrest had been restored to him, together with a smaller sum, and other miscellaneous articles which he had had when first arrested at the Tipcat Club. He now provided himself with a suitcase of some solidity, and a sufficient quantity of linen and other articles to supply his needs for the fourteen days which seemed too likely to be the total measure of liberty that Mr. Jellipot’s legal efforts would be able to gain.
Remembering the subpoena his pocket held, he observed that the privacy of his release, which Mr. Jellipot’s caution had secured, was not likely to continue beyond the coming Monday. He supposed with some reason that it would be difficult for him to give evidence in such a case, and to leave the witness-box without his true name and present circumstances becoming almost universally known.
Well, he had two days. He could not call it more, for he had to be at the court at ten on Monday morning, waiting till he should be called to the witness-box. What could he do in so short a time? With no clear purpose in his mind, he decided to visit the Tipcat Club that night, where he had first met the acquaintances who had wrecked his life. He must be guided then by whom he would meet, and by the course of his conversation with them. He might see August Garten there, in whom was his best hope.
If she were not there, he decided that he would call upon her in the morning at the flat in Sheldon Gardens to which she had invited him (with others) more than once in the days when the seeking of her society was the first object that ruled his life. He would call at an hour when she might not be up, she being of those who sacrifice day for the darker hours; but it was unlikely, at such an hour, that they would be disturbed by such of her friends as he would not desire to meet. If he should see her at all, there would be time for conversation which would be unhurried, and might be unknown to any except themselves.
So he planned. But when he called on Inspector Combridge at the following noon, to fulfil a promise that he would report his address to him, he had a tale of double failure to tell.
As to the Tipcat Club, there had been a strange porter at the door, who regarded him with a suspicion which did not lessen when he gave a password several weeks out of date. Even when he abandoned the pretence of secrecy — he had commenced by giving his own name — and announced himself as Harold Vaughan, it was of no avail. The door was closed in his face, and there was no response when he continued for some minutes stubbornly pressing the bell.
He accepted this rebuff without much discouragement, as it was the second part of his programme in which he had better hope; but when he called at the Sheldon Gardens flat he found that Miss Garten’s name had been removed from the signboard at the stair-foot. Miss Garten’s flat was to let.
He sought the caretaker in the roof, and was informed that the lady had left a few days before. She had said that Scotland was her destination. Nothing more definite than that.
Had she left no address to which letters could be forwarded? No, she had not. But the woman, who was neither unfriendly to himself, nor disposed to regard him as one whom a young lady would go far to avoid, added that as Miss Garten had been receiving letters up to the morning when she somewhat abruptly left, and as there had been none arriving
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