The Hunter and the Trapped (20 page)

“Thank you, sir,”

“Tell him I have not betrayed his confidence. He is still at liberty to conceal what he knows. You will have to persuade him in your own way, inspector. If you think he can help you.”

If John will play, Hubert thought, as he turned from seeing Mont off, they'll have to go after that devil. Only Penny must be kept out of it. She'd learned her lesson, he'd been told, and her punishment was sufficient without this. The Allinghams too. They must be kept right out. There was more danger there than anywhere. Could he trust John to keep Penny out? Of course he could. He might refuse to say anything. That wouldn't matter. It would only help to confirm what he hoped he had planted in the inspector's mind. That Fawcett was a dangerous man and capable of any crime in the calendar.

Chief-inspector Mont behaved exactly as Hubert wished. He followed up the latter's obvious hints all the more eagerly for knowing that the evidence he had gathered so far was shaky in the extreme. The Beltonston case was history: it still existed in police files, and the two finger-prints, he had learned, could be produced for comparison. But those finger-prints were blurred and the date of the Fawcetts' visit existed only precariously in the memory of one old woman. Without supporting evidence he could hardly make out a direct case against Fawcett for the long forgotten crime.

On the other hand recent evidence of violent behaviour on the man's part would at least suggest the possibility that he was implicated in the Morris murder. And then … ? Well, then it would be a question of getting hold of Fawcett's fingerprints and breaking him down about his illness.

For Mont had suffered another setback in that direction. The records of the Medical Boards for the Pontley area had been searched and there was nothing whatever in them relating to Simon Fawcett. Or rather there were papers relating to him, the appropriate form with a line drawn through it and the single remark, ‘Unfit to attend. Letter attached.' There was no letter. Perhaps it was lost, perhaps destroyed. At any rate Fawcett had never been examined medically on call-up. He had been excused attendance and there was nothing whatever to show why.

Old Miss Skinner had provided an answer, but it had no medical support. It might convince him, but it would be worthless in a court of law. Mrs. Fawcett had been highly successful in protecting her son and concealing his disease, whatever it was. Had she, by doing so, brought about the deaths of an innocent child and a criminal hag? Mont's frustration roused him to unaccustomed fury at the hidden lawlessness, independence, arrogance or whatever else you could call it of the respectable and respected professional class.

Coming to himself, he decided that anger would get him nowhere and he had better find John Allingham in Portsmouth. This he proceeded to do. The young man was unwilling to talk about Simon Fawcett and quick to realise why the Chief-inspector had come to him.

“I suppose Mr. Dane has been talking?” he said, with annoyance.

“I asked him for any assistance he could give me,” said Mont, stiffly. “As I'm asking you, sir.”

“Dane has a definite, personal grudge against Fawcett that can't possibly have any bearing on your case.”

“That's for me to judge.”

“Not in this instance, I think. I know he was ready to go to extraordinary lengths to catch Fawcett out in some behaviour – anything at all – that would ruin him at the college.”

“Indeed? Mr. Dane must have a legitimate motive for such an extreme course.”

“He's a very prejudiced man, if you call that a legitimate motive.”

“I don't quite understand you, sir.”

“I'm afraid I can't help that. I just mean that anything Dane may have said to you about Fawcett is likely to be coloured by his prejudice.”

“Yes. Well, let me put it another way. Mr. Fawcett normally appears to be a quiet, self-controlled man. Have you ever seen him behave in such a way to present quite a different picture?”

A picture? Oh yes, a picture of Simon, eyes glaring, teeth bared, coming at him with a long knife ready to strike downward into his neck.

John wiped the picture from his mind but Mont had been watching him closely and saw the quick look of tension, followed by angry disgust.

“Cases of gross instability,” he said, carefully, “don't even come to court. Unfit to plead,” he hinted.

John knew perfectly well what the man meant. Hadn't he already gone over the whole incident himself, again and again, usually coming to the conclusion that was evidently growing in this cop's mind?

But to describe his brief fight with Simon would inevitably lead to the disclosure of its cause. Penny would have to be brought in, the real reason for what he had called Dane's prejudice would be laid bare, the whole of Fawcett's rottenness linked forever with Penny. That was unthinkable.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “If Mr. Dane thought I could help you he was mistaken. I hardly knew Fawcett. I met him for the first time this summer. I believe I've only seen him once since then.

“Would that be at his flat?”

John hesitated. Had one of the other tenants seen him on the stairs. Better not to lie.

“Yes. It was.”

“Did you quarrel? Did he offer you violence?”

This was too much. Hubert must have broken his word. It was monstrous of him to let his hatred of Fawcett endanger his own daughter.

“If Mr. Dane has broken his word to me why did you come to me at all?”

“Mr. Dane betrayed no confidence, sir. But I think you have answered my question.”

So that was that, Mont thought, as he took an icy farewell of the furious young man. The detail at this stage did not really matter. Fawcett had been violent. That was enough.

“Is it really, sir?” Sergeant Clay asked, when he heard the result of the Portsmouth visit. “I mean to say, if two chaps blow their tops and one goes for the other it doesn't necessarily mean he's bats, does it?”

“Of course not.” For a moment the Chief-inspector wondered if he was going up the wall himself. “And that's exactly what would be said in court. All the same, think it gets us a bit further.”

Clay still looked very doubtful.

“Where do we go from here, sir?” he asked.

“Back to Kilburn. To get Fawcett's dabs. And ask him bit more about that asthma of his.”

Mont's intention, however, could not be carried out immediately. Fresh news arrived from the flats. Mr. Nelson had been found by the caretaker dead in his bed. And pen note addressed to the coroner showed that the man had taken his life deliberately. It also suggested that the police had hounded him to such an extent that there was nothing left for him to do. This report had come direct to the local divisional headquarters from the coroner, who wanted an explanation.

“The answer to that is a guilty conscience,” said the divisional superintendent.

“I wonder,” Mont answered. He was upset by the news, but felt innocent of any conduct that could be described as ‘hounding'.

“He must have thought you were on his tracks and catching up with him.”

“He can't have. I checked on his drug dealings and warned him. He couldn't deny he was being blackmailed by Mrs. Morris. But that was all. He never was an important suspect.”

“He will be now. In the Press, and in the eyes of the public. Probably of the coroner, too. You see what he says. Nelson
could
have done it, you know. He could have wanted to get his money back and when he found she hadn't got it, lost his temper and did her in.”

Much the same behaviour that Clay had suggested for Fawcett, decided Mont. Possible, perhaps.

“There's no question it was real suicide?” he asked. “No suggestion of foul play? A fake suicide, a forged note, to make him look like a murderer at the end of his tether?”

“No. But I expect you'd like to have a look round yourself. We haven't moved him, yet.”

So Mont's next visit to the flats took him to Mr. Nelson's sitting room where Wilson the caretaker, white-faced and angry, was waiting for him.

“I've had about enough of these shocks,” Wilson complained. “Don't know what's come over the place. Never had no trouble here in all the years I been here and now this lot. Murder one day and suicide the next.”

“It's ten days since the Morris case,” Mont said, sharply. “There's no connection between that and this.”

“Oh, isn't there? I'd have thought there was a ruddy obvious connection.”

Mont demanded a brief account of the finding of the body and Wilson gave it, sullenly. Since Mrs. Morris's death Mrs. Wilson had obliged those of the tenants who asked for her services. She had gone up to Mr. Nelson's door expecting him to open it for her. When there was no answer to her ring and knock she went back to her husband. Wilson took up his key, went in and found the ex-doctor lying in bed and the note on the table beside him. He at once rang up the police.

“Did you make sure he was dead before you left him?”

“I didn't need to. One look was enough.”

Mont did not argue the point. He sent Wilson away and organised a routine, methodical examination of the room, including photographs and finger-prints.

It was later, while Nelson's body was being removed, that Mont caught sight of Fawcett standing in his own doorway, watching the proceedings. Welcoming this opportunity of informal talk he went over to him.

“Poor beggar,” Simon said, in a troubled voice. “The final failure of a doomed life.”

Mont nodded. You could look at it that way, he supposed.

“Did you happen to see him at all yesterday?” he asked.

“Why yes. If you want to know how he seemed, he was just the same as always. Perhaps a bit more shaky. But then he's been so afraid of losing his job – the only job he'd be likely to get – after you'd checked on his past.”

“What do you know of his past, Mr. Fawcett?”

“Only what he told me, inspector. In confidence.”

Mont began to feel again the distaste, confusion and sense of frustration that had assailed him before in his dealings with this man.

“Did you go into his room at all yesterday?”

“I did. Why?”

Mont saw an added opportunity.

“We shall have to trace any visitors he had, if we can. To find out more of his state of mind. We've taken fingerprints and so on. We shall have to ask Mr. and Mrs. Wilson for theirs. Perhaps you would let us have yours. For elimination purposes.”

“Certainly. Though I've never heard of this being done in cases of suicide.” Simon lifted calm eyes to meet the Chief-inspector's without hesitation or fear. “Do you think it will help you?” he asked.

“I think it may, sir,” Mont answered. “I'll just get my man and come over to your flat.”

So the delay and the diversion worked in his favour, he thought, as he and Clay went back to Whitehall. He had his prints. He only had to check them with Beltonston and then he'd know.

“If they tie up, what comes next?” Clay asked. “We still have no proof he did Mrs. Morris.”

“We'd have a strong suspicion he killed the boy. If we know he handled the jam jar the child was using.”

“All that time ago!”

“Time doesn't matter to us. It would to him. The shock might break him down. All these years, thinking he'd got away with it.”

“Would he really think like that if he's a nut? Wouldn't he have forgotten it, put it away, so to speak? You're pretty sure in your own mind he's our man, aren't you, sir?”

“I'm sure of nothing,” said Mont, desperately.

His doubt was shared by Simon, himself. The fingerprint performance had not disturbed him, for he was not aware of its significance. He had worn gloves on the morning he had lunched with George Clark and later travelled by train from Victoria.

But he was disturbed by Nelson's death. The man had left a note. What had he put in it? Was there any reference to himself? Was Nelson another of his enemies; one of the group that was closing round him, nearer and nearer, threatening –

They were powerless, of course. Every attack on him, from the very beginning, had failed. Would always fail.

But it left him feeling restless, tired, worried about trivial things. He decided to go out and walk off his disquiet.

Before leaving his room he looked in his wallet. He had plenty of money left. The thirty pounds he had drawn from the bank to give to Mrs. Morris, which he had not had to give to her, was still there. He had spent none of it. He still had, besides, ten shillings left out of the additional sum he had allowed himself for the next fortnight's expenses. The fortnight was up today. It was another Saturday. Of course, that was why they'd found Nelson this morning. His cleaning day. Mrs. Wilson. Of course. Why had he not realised before that today was another Saturday? And he still had thirty pounds.

He put on his old, stained mackintosh, feeling for his gloves in the pockets as he did so. The flat had become distasteful to him. Nobody had been in to clean it since Mrs. Morris died and though he had all his main meals out he ate his breakfast at home. Consequently the kitchen sink was now filled with dirty cups, saucers and plates, sprinkled over with the coffee grounds he had emptied there each morning before making a fresh brew. His bedroom, too, was in confusion, the bed unmade, dirty shirts and handkerchiefs on the floor. A parcel of clean linen, its paper split open at one end, lay on a chair. He had taken what he needed from it, but had not attempted to put away the rest.

Simon turned from the squalor of his rooms and went out, locking the door behind him. There was no one on the landing now. The police guard who had stood there all the morning had been withdrawn. Nelson's flat was empty, Simon knew. But though he glanced at its door as he reached the head of the stairs it was not of Nelson that he thought.

On the first landing he passed Mrs. Hyde stooping painfully to plant her empty milk bottle beside her door. He paused to help her and would have passed on with a gentle smile, but she caught his sleeve and said, “More trouble for us all! I don't know what we've done to deserve it!”