The Attic Murder, S. Fowler Wright [children's books read aloud .TXT] 📗

IT was slightly before four o’clock that afternoon when Miss Weston called at Mr. Jellipot’s office. She was shown in at once, and the lawyer greeted her cordially.

“It was good of you,” he said, “to come so promptly. Sir Reginald thought that something might be gained if we went over all that happened on the night of the murder together.” He added doubtfully: “I don’t know that we shall. You seemed to me to give your account very clearly, and to have acted with unusual courage and self-control… Besides, I expect Mr. Banks has been over the same ground with you since lunch, and you’re about sick of the whole subject.”

“Yes, I am rather,” Miss Weston answered. She had, in fact, lost interest in the uncongenial occupation of crime-detection with the death of the man in whose evil-doing she was directly concerned. She would have left the employment of the Texall Agency at once, had not Mr. Banks insisted that he was entitled to a month’s notice, which she could not deny, and kept her sitting in his offices with little to occupy her time, and for no reason that she could see, except that he must wish to keep her in sight until the cause and responsibility of the Rabone murder had been resolved.

But Mr. Jellipot had the voice of a friend, and she answered frankly: “I can’t say that Mr. Banks has been bothering me. I came over because Sir Reginald Crowe telephoned, and asked me to do so. He said he’d take the responsibility of my leaving the office. So I waited for some time, but Mr. Banks hasn’t been in since lunch, and I thought I’d better come… I don’t really think I can help you at all… I know Mr. Banks thinks it was Peter Entwistle, and it does seem likely in a good many ways. He’s done all he could to get me to say that the man I saw was like him, but I can’t honestly. Really, I didn’t see him at all, apart from one leg.”

“And there was nothing that you could recognize in that?”

“No, there wasn’t. I looked at Peter Entwistle’s legs particularly. They seemed different to me, but of course he would have changed what he wore.”

“So he would. It is more than probable that there would have been blood on either the trousers or boots, especially as the murderer moved about the room in the dark after committing the crime. It is not certain — the fact that the assault was from behind makes it possible that he may have avoided bloodstains entirely if he acted with sufficient care — but it is a very probable thing. Did you notice nothing whatever by which identification would be possible?”

“No. I don’t think I could. You must remember it was only a moment’s glimpse, as I switched on the light, and the leg was drawn over the window-sill.”

She paused, as though on the verge of something she hesitated or feared to say, and Mr. Jellipot waited in a discreet silence that tempted her to go on.

“It just shows,” she said at last, “how unreliable such identifications can be, and I only mention it for that reason. but the only time I’ve seen a leg that brought it back to my mind was when Mr. Banks himself was putting his out of a taxi, when he got out of it after me, the day he took me to Sir Reginald’s office.”

Mr. Jellipot smiled with her at the absurdity of the idea. He said: “No, I don’t think that would be sufficient to convict Mr. Banks. Identifications are often most unsatisfactory; and, unfortunately, everyone isn’t as sensible, or as scrupulous as yourself… I expect you’ll be glad to see his office for the last time, and to forget that you’ve ever been in the enquiry business.”

“Yes, I shall. But I should like to see it cleared up in such a way that my father’s honour will be vindicated. I should like it proved what Mr. Rabone was.”

“I think you may look on that as a very probable conclusion… It seems that someone’s been silly enough to kidnap young Hammerton, if they haven’t done anything worse. I think that’s where they’ve made a mistake.”

Miss Weston waked to a more lively interest when she heard this. She asked for details, and Mr. Jellipot told what he knew, which was not much. “I wonder,” he concluded, “whether I could ask you to do something more in this matter. Something that won’t be dangerous if Peter Entwistle’s innocent, as I am inclined to believe, but may be very dangerous if he isn’t.”

“Yes,” she said, “if you say it’s worth while, I’ll do the best that I can.”

“I ought to tell you first that the two matters may be quite separate. That the gang among whom Francis Hammerton got mixed up may have no connection with the Rabone murder. I think differently. I think they are more or less one. But I may be wrong.”

“Very well. I understand that. I’ll do anything you advise.”

“I want you to find Peter Entwistle. J want you to tell him everything that led up to his arrest, from the angle of the Texall Enquiry Agency. If you think anything doesn’t matter, or hesitate to mention it on other grounds, that’s all the more reason why you should.

“When you’ve done that, say I want to see him, and bring him to me at once. It doesn’t matter at what hour it may be. You’ll have my private address on this card. You can memorize it, and tear it up.”

“You won’t tell me particularly what I’m to mention?”

“No. You’d better tell him naturally, in your own way. I may be quite wrong. And if I’m right, you’ll be more likely to convince him if you haven’t got the same idea in your mind.”

“Am I to go now?”

“The sooner the better.”

“You’ll let Mr. Banks know that I shan’t be back?”

“Did you leave a message that you were coming here?”

“No, I didn’t. There was no one in that I cared to tell. The rule in that office is that we say the least that we can.”

“It is an excellent one, which might with advantage be more widely applied. You can leave that to me.”

Miss Weston went at that, without further words. She had a hurried meal in a near-by teashop, during which she considered how best she should approach Peter Entwistle, and what Mr. Jellipot could be particular that she should say. Then she got up briskly, paid her bill, and went out to call the first taxi she saw.

“Thirteen Vincent Street,” she said, “and I want you to put me down without stopping to talk there, drive away for a few minutes, and then come back and stop a few doors farther down toward Windsor Terrace, on the other side, and wait for me there.”

The man heard these instructions without enthusiasm, but his expression altered as she handed him a pound note.

“You can give me the change,” she said, “if it comes to less, but it’s quite likely there’ll be something to add.”

He listened with an intelligent interest as she went over the instructions again.