Dictator's Way (17 page)

“We'll have to follow that line up,” agreed Ulyett. “Who can I spare for the job?” He scowled and frowned over his list of names. “We are so short handed,” he complained. “Well, anyway, Yates is Suspect B. What about Suspect C, Clarence. That yarn of his – pretty thin, eh?”

“Well, sir, I thought it a bit thick myself,” agreed Bobby, and both were too engrossed to think of pausing to admire the resources of the English language. “Of course, he is quite unreliable. But there is some confirmation. An anonymous letter making accusations against him was actually received.”

“He's a natural born liar,” observed Ulyett. “May have written the letter himself.”

“I don't think he has brains enough for that, sir,” Bobby said, “or enough to invent the yarn he told me, for that matter.”

“There's an offer of money to kill and someone was killed,” Ulyett pointed out. “Cause and effect, Ferris says. Clarence has sense enough to see he must be suspected, so he comes along with half the truth, half the truth being always the best lie. If that's giving him more brains than he's got, how about someone in the background putting him up to it?”

“It's possible,” agreed Bobby. “It might be, too, that his story is true as far as it goes, only he knew Macklin would be at The Manor – perhaps had a message to meet him there – knew that Macklin had a hundred pounds on him and what began as an attempt at robbery ended in murder. Only again – no direct evidence.”

“He'll have to stay Suspect C, he'll have to be brought in and questioned,” declared Ulyett. “Who on earth can I put on the job?” He contemplated his list of those who could in theory be spared and shook a despairing head. “Suppose I'll have to invent someone special for the job,” he said finally. “Clarence seems to have disappeared and no one knows where he's gone – as per usual. I wonder if that pawn ticket stunt of yours will come off to give us a hint where to look for him.”

“It hasn't, sir,” said Bobby sadly. “I rang up my rooms to ask if there had been any message, and they say a street urchin left a pawn ticket about noon. It's from a shop close by. Clarence must have pawned the thing there first thing this morning and then given a boy twopence or so to leave the ticket for me.”

“Well, it was worth trying, long shots like that do come off sometimes. What about this Waveny bird? Friend of yours, is he?”

“I've only met him once or twice, it's years since I saw him,” Bobby answered. He added in rather a worried tone: “I don't know what to think of him.”

“In love with the Farrar girl?”

“He says he wants to marry her,” agreed Bobby, wincing.

“Threatened to go for Macklin, hadn't he?” mused Ulyett. “Says Macklin was getting fresh with Miss Farrar, doesn't he? Jealousy. How about his watching for a chance to have it out with Macklin – and it ends in murder?”

“It might be like that, I suppose,” admitted Bobby gloomily.

“Have to see what she has to say herself,” decided Ulyett. “Or – how about this? Waveny admits he was threatened with a writ and then he tells this yarn about a debtor turning up unexpectedly with the exact amount required. Not the sort of thing debtors do as a rule. Debtor vanished abroad, too, so there's no chance of checking up, and Waveny has no alibi. He could easily have got to The Manor and done the job on his way to this aunt he talks about. Another motive there. He may have known she had strict ideas about debt and would cut him out of her will if she heard about the writ. Old ladies are like that sometimes. All the rest of his yarn may have been just to make you think it couldn't be him when he was actually offering to take you to the place – next day. Looks as if it was his idea to be the one to discover the corpse with you as witness – to provide proof he had nothing to do with it.” 

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby, “only not much direct evidence again.” -

“He'll have to stop Suspect D,” declared Ulyett. “It'll be another line to follow up,” and this time he did not even look at his list of names, so little hope now had he in it. “Oh, well, what about Suspect E?”

“Who's that, sir?” asked Bobby uneasily.

“The Farrar girl. She was on the spot. Clarence says she gave him a new one-pound note and we know the money stolen from Macklin was in new notes.”

“Not very much in that, sir, is there?” Bobby asked. “Plenty of new notes issued by the banks. She has a shop as well.”

“Yes, there's that,” agreed Ulyett, “but she went to Judson's parties. Macklin is suspected of blackmail. Suppose he tried the same game on her. She was in a hole – desperate. She was to meet him and brought a life preserver or something like that with her – flat-iron in the end of a stocking perhaps. I've known a woman try that on. She may have brought it just for protection. Perhaps Macklin did get fresh with her and she let him have it. A woman can hit hard enough all right once she gets worked up. Then she makes sure with a cushion – that might be a woman's idea. A man wanting to make sure would go on hitting. What do you think?”

Bobby, incapable of thinking, was equally incapable of speech, and therefore said nothing. Ulyett did not seem to notice and continued:

“Another line to follow up. You'll have to take her, I think. It's promising, you've met her already, a girl might be more likely to come through to a young chap like you.”

Bobby thought wildly of resigning on the spot. But one did not resign simply because one did not like the job offered. Besides, though he hated the idea with a great hatred, yet he knew also that it was happiness as well, nor did he ask himself how from the same source could spring both happiness and hate.

“Mustn't forget Suspect F, though,” continued Ulyett, “the little restaurant keeper, I mean – Troya's his name, isn't it? He was on the spot like Clarence and Miss Farrar. He admits to being afraid that Macklin was going to give the Judson business to someone else. That might be a motive, led to a quarrel again. Or there's the blackmail idea – aliens in this country are subject to blackmail sometimes. Get told if they don't pay up, information will be given to the police and they'll be deported. I've known that tried on very small grounds – none at all even.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby.

“I suppose you mean there's no direct evidence?”

“Well, sir, there isn't, is there?” asked Bobby. “Troya's an experienced business man, he would know very well what he would be deported for, he wouldn't be bluffed. And I believe they know him at the Etrurian Embassy, some of them there go to his place to dine, even the Ambassador himself once or twice. He would have a pull there if any unauthorized threats were made.”

“That's right,” agreed Ulyett. “All just vague and confused, like watching a film when you arrive in the middle. Suspicion – lots of it – nothing more – very difficult – an intolerable deal of suspicion to mighty little evidence, as they say at the Old Vic. Shakespeare, you know – or is it Shaw? All the same, anyhow.”

A constable made his appearance. He reported that Sergeant Owen's sketch had been shown to the porter who had pronounced it the dead spit of Mr. Phillip Adams.

“That's that,” said Ulyett with satisfaction, “and that's Suspect G, and the hottest of the lot, too. What's Mr. Peter Albert doing in a flat taken under a false name in the same building where Macklin lived and then telling you he didn't know him and had never seen him? You've met Albert – what did you think of him? Likely type?” Bobby drew a deep breath. He had to be just before all, for though justice may not be a divine virtue in this world, or else why is one man a six foot Apollo and another a humpbacked dwarf? yet between men it is the first, the most necessary, the foundation of all human good. ‘Let justice be done though the heavens fall,' said the old Romans, and so proved they at least had a right to rule.

“Mr. Albert,” said Bobby, drawing a deep breath, “is quite young, twenty-seven he told me. Good looking, well dressed, pleasant manner, talked to the waiters as if he knew all the difference was they happened to be doing a different job, outdoor look about him, gave you the idea that if you and he were in a spot together you could trust him to see it through.”

Ulyett looked mildly surprised.

“Fallen for him, eh?” he said. “Well, if he's all that, what's he telling lies for, saying he's never seen Macklin?” Bobby had no reply to make.

“Miss Farrar was with him,” Ulyett went on. “Anything between them?”

“They said they had known each other since they were children.”

“I mean now – engaged or anything like that?”

“I don't know, sir, I didn't ask and they didn't say, but I feel pretty sure they are,” said Bobby, his voice carefully indifferent. Lest Ulyett should notice anything if he were allowed time to think, Bobby went on: “We've nothing yet to explain why papers were burnt in the dustbin.”

“Is there any reason why we should have?” Ulyett asked. “I don't see why there need by any connection.”

“It's just a thing that happened,” Bobby answered. “There's one point though, if you notice, that applies to them all.”

“I can notice that all right,” Ulyett snapped. “Anyone would. What about it?”

“Isn't it a bit suggestive, sir?” Bobby asked.

“Suggestive of what?” growled Ulyett. “If it suggests to you which of the lot's the right one, let me know, will you?”

But to that Bobby had no reply and so held his tongue.

The hour had grown late by now and when Bobby reached the little shop in the street behind Piccadilly, it had already closed. But on the threshold, in the act of departing, was that divinity whom Bobby had seen there before. Apparently she did not recognize him for even when he raised his hat and spoke, it was only with evident difficulty that she realized his existence, a little as one realizes the existence of a speck of dust blown down the street.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, but very plainly meaning that he ought to beg hers.

“I was asking if I could see Miss Farrar,” he explained.

This was such a shock that it brought her to allow her attention to occupy itself with him, as one allows one's attention to be occupied by an unusually troublesome gnat.

“Our establishment has ceased business for the day,” she pronounced, and Bobby felt just as the gnat must feel when an unusually decisive hand descends upon it.

“I'm so sorry,” he persisted, for though one may be intimidated, duty must be done, “I am afraid I must see Miss Farrar. Is she in? I understand she has living rooms here.”

“Miss Farrar is not here at present,” was the stern answer. “Miss Farrar is at her country cottage for the week-end. No doubt Miss Farrar will return on Monday morning as usual. Miss Farrar might be able to receive you then.”

“Unfortunately I can't wait so long,” Bobby answered firmly. “Can you give me the address of her cottage?”

She bestowed on him one slow, haughty glance. Bobby stood his ground quite bravely. She hesitated and then surprisingly revealed that after all she remembered him.

“I suppose you really are police?” she asked. “You aren't the landlord or rates or any of the wholesalers, are you?”

“Certainly not,” said Bobby.

“Well, that's something,” she admitted, “and it's not traffic lights or leaving the car too long or anything like that?”

“Nothing like that at all,” Bobby reassured her.

“Oh, well, then,” she sighed, and gave the address, Low Beech Cottage, on the west border of the forest, towards its northern boundary, and so in the same district as The Manor even though three or four miles separated them with a projecting arm of the forest lying between.

Bobby expressed his gratitude to the hat shop divinity for the information and departed in spite of the fact that, her former indifference broken down, she now seemed condescendingly inclined to linger, even to chatter indeed. But he had grown preoccupied, for he was wondering whether this comparative proximity of Low Beech Cottage to The Manor had any significance, and he had been rendered a little uneasy, too, by the apparent revelation that Miss Farrar was pressed for money. He told himself gloomily that when you are pressed for money, most people would be inclined to say that a hundred pounds could be a great temptation.

All the more need then to discover the truth and so clear the innocent from suspicion. For that, after all, is as important a part of a detective's work as is the bringing of the guilty to justice, and to save a good name often means as much as to save a life.

A little cheered by this reflection he went back to the garage where he kept the motor-cycle he had lately purchased – on the hire system – wondered where the next instalment was coming from, wondered whether he would get the petrol he was going to use successfully passed through expenses, and then mounted and rode out Epping way.

It was a pleasant ride once the more crowded streets were left behind. He had picked out his route on a map and near his destination he consulted a constable who had never heard of Low Beech Cottage but was able to indicate the probable direction. Riding on, Bobby found himself presently on a quiet path, running through the forest itself with the tall trees rising up on either hand. It was very still here and very quiet, a contrast indeed to those roaring spates of endless traffic through which his earlier course had lain. Here he rode alone and tranquillity was all about him. It was very dark, too, he had to turn on his headlight and proceed slowly on a route by no means in the best of repair.

Uncertain whether he had not somehow missed his way, he halted, and sat for a moment or two, aware now of the lovely silence that here lay like the peace of God upon the, great still forest.

He thought lazily how tranquil all the earth would seem if it were not for the presence of the quarrelsome and restless race of man. How all this surrounding peace, for instance, would be shattered the moment that he started his engine roaring and clamouring again, how, too, the fumes from his exhaust pipe would poison the sweet evening fragrance of the woodland air. He told himself it would be like an insult to the old forest gods – only that probably they had not yet recovered from the last bank holiday. He became aware that someone was watching him from the midst of a clump of young beeches near by.