Case for Three Detectives (12 page)

“In fact,” said Lord Simon, “you suspect everyone?”

“Well, that's what it seems like. Though I don't see how any of them could have done it, really.”

“What about that stepson?”

“Oh yes,” I returned ingenuously, “I was forgetting that. Well, there again, there are several possibilities. I thought at first it was Strickland. But I'm not so sure now. Why shouldn't it be Norris? Or Fellowes? Or Miles?”

“Or even you,” said Lord Simon quietly.

“Well, it doesn't happen to be me,” I returned, not caring much for the remark, “but I see what you mean, of course.”

“At any rate, you find it all pretty puzzlin', what?”

“Of course I do. Don't you?”

“I have my moments of lucidity,” said Lord Simon, “but there's a lot of information I'm hankerin' after still.” He turned aside. “By the way, Beef!” he called across the room.

The Sergeant's mouth was full of rabbit-pie, but he made some answering sound.

“Have you looked up the record of our next witness—Fellowes, the chauffeur?”

The Sergeant swallowed so violently that his throat seemed to distend like a chicken's. “Record?” he said. “What record?”

“The criminal record, of course,” said Lord Simon, who seemed to enjoy discomfiting the Sergeant.

“Didn't know 'e ‘ad one,” said the latter sulkily.

“There! It's a good thing I have Butterfield with me. He was able to discover that Fellowes did a stretch of eighteen months in prison four years ago, for burglary. Violent sort of business, I gather.”

“Can't know everything,” mumbled Sergeant Beef. “And it ‘asn't got nothink to do with the case, anyway,” he added.

Lord Simon shrugged. “Beef of the evening, beautiful Beef,” he murmured.

I moved across to M. Picon. The little man was munching happily, and quite elated. I could not remember him enjoying a meal before this, and was delighted to see the colour rising to his bovine cheeks.

“Whatever else that Mademoiselle Storey may be,” he said, “she is an
artiste”

I hesitated to explain that with that term in our mixed language he had accused her of activities on the music-hall stage, and nodded appreciatively.

“Are you beginning to get the hang of this affair?” I asked.

“Get the hang?” He laughed outright. “That is a good phrase! But it is not
Papa
Picon who will ‘get the hang'.
Pas du tout!”

“I mean, do you understand it yet?”

“I will tell you. I see more light. But what is that? A mote. A black spot. All is not unclouded. But
allons, mon ami.
All in good time. I, Amer Picon, have said so. And, presently, you will say—'Ah, why have I not seen that?' “

“That's good. But tell me, Monsieur Picon, what did you mean by asking Stall where the screams came from? I thought that was such an extraordinary question.”

“An idea, no more. Just a little idea. Quite small. Quite little. But,
voyons.
We shall see. Sometimes even Amer Picon has an idea, no? Very childish, very simple, perhaps. But still an idea.”

And that was all I could get out of him. Mgr. Smith, on the other hand, talked quite readily, though I could not call him informative. Finding myself plunged into this role of enquiring and credulous fool, to whom the great investigators would voice their conundrums, I resolved to make the best of it, and see whether he would add to my bewilderment, or elucidate it.

“It's simple enough so far as it has gone, but like all mysteries, it has not gone far enough. Don't you see that that is what is always puzzling—the case half-stated, the
character half-formed? The were-wolf was the most terrifying creature in mythology because it was half a man. The centaur was a horror because he was half a beast. The trouble with most modern thought is that it is half-hearted

“But, Monsignor Smith,” I interrupted, fearing that he might continue in this strain all the evening, “who do you think it was that actually used that weapon?” I thought my question was as direct as it could be, and must succeed in securing as flat an answer.

“Oh, that's easy enough,” came the cabn reply. “But we are trying to discover who killed Mrs. Thurston.”

“Then … then you don't think she was killed with that little Oriental knife?”

“I am sorry, but I'm afraid that she was, yes.”

“Well, then?”

“What really puzzles me is the two hundred pounds.”

“But surely there's no mystery about that. It was about the maximum which could be got out of poor Mary Thurston just then.”

“And since that sum was drawn and paid, why did not the front-door bell ring? I would like it to have rung. A bell may sound for a man's passing, but it may save his soul.”

“How do you know it didn't ring?” I asked him. “After all, the cook wasn't sure. She said the girl was having hysterics, and she might not have noticed it. It may have rung, for all you know.”

He blinked at me with solemn interest. “That's true. Yes. I believe you're right. The bell might have rung to tell those in the kitchen that someone was outside. On the other hand, it might have rung to tell them that someone was
not
outside!”

I could not feel that this sort of speculation, brilliant though doubtless it was, could help me much towards deciding on the identity of the murderer, and left Mgr. Smith to his glass of red wine and oatmeal biscuit.

More out of sympathy than anything else I crossed to old Beef. The investigation, so far as it had gone, had evidently given him a splendid appetite and an enviable thirst. He had made the most of them, but although the supply of food and drink had been lavish and varied, I fancied that he would have been more at home in his usual seat in the public bar.

“Shouldn't be surprised if this didn't upset me,” he said, referring to a plate of trifle he was finishing. “Bread and cheese and pickles is my supper, generally speaking.”

“And very nice, too,” I admitted. “Well, Sergeant, what do you think of this investigation?”

“Think of it? Blarsted waste of time, that's what it is. I ‘ad a darts match to play to-night,” he added regretfully.

“But we've got to find the murderer,” I reminded him.

“‘Aven't I told you I know 'oo it is?” he said, growing quite crimson with impatience. “It's as plain as a pikestaff,” he added.

“Then why don't you arrest the man—or woman, without further delay?”

“Why not? Because these ‘ere private detectives can't mind their own business. Pushing their noses in at Scotland Yard! When I made my report I was told to wait till they've had their say. Well, I'm waiting. Only I wish they'd ‘urry up about it. With their stepsons, and their bells, and their where-did-the-screams-come-from. Why, they
try
to make it complicated.”

“I'm bound to say, though, Beef, it doesn't look very simple to me.”

“No, sir. But then, you see,
you're
not a policeman, are you?”

To which piece of stupid self-importance I made no reply.

F
ELLOWES
seemed to have changed from the smart and well-mannered chauffeur who had met me several times at the village station. He sat in the chair offered to him, with his head bent forward, so that when his eyes rose to meet those of his questioner he had an almost lowering appearance. He looked sullen and on his guard. I was disappointed in this, for I had somehow hoped that he would prove to be innocent, and I felt that he was making a bad impression on the investigators.

For the first time I allowed a purely psychological or instinctive kind of speculation to work. Was this the kind of man who could have murdered Mary Thurston? Could I picture him doing it? Was it in his nature to do it?

I had never observed him closely when his hat was off until now. I could not help admitting that his square, straight forehead, and the low line where his thick hair began, suggested something brutal about him. Yet there was also in his manner an air of carefree and sailor-like good nature which seemed to contradict that. On the whole, I felt that if he was guilty, it had been with some extreme provocation, if such a thing were possible. He had not murdered with a mean or a greedy motive, if he had murdered at all.

Lord Simon had begun quite chattily. “Know a bloke called Miles?” he asked.

Fellowes glanced up quickly. “Yes,” he said, with enquiry in his voice.

“Known him long?”

“Some years.”

“Got into a spot of trouble with him, didn't you?”

“Good God. Are you going to rake that up?” growled Fellowes.

“Can't help it. Sorry to pull out the bally skeleton, and all that. But it can't be helped. When did you see Miles last?”

“This morning.”

“See him yesterday?”

“In the afternoon, yes.”

“Where?”

A long pause. “In the village.” It was evident that Fellowes meant to give absolutely the minimum of information necessary.

“By appointment?”

“No.”

“Where did you spend yesterday afternoon?”

“I had to meet Mr. Townsend at five-five.”

“And before that?”

“I was free.”

“What did you do?”

“I was running in the car engine. She's just been rebored.”

“Anyone with you?”

Very decidedly Fellowes said, “No.”

“You've been a sailor, haven't you, Fellowes? Life on the ocean wave, and all that sort of thing?”

“I was in the Merchant Service for a few years.”

“Had a pretty tough life, one way and another?”

He grinned. “I suppose you'd call it pretty tough.”

“Ever seen anyone killed?”

“Saw a boy eaten by alligators once. Crossing a river it was, on the East Coast.”

“And so what with such hair-raisin' experiences and a spell in chokey, you can reckon to be pretty hardboiled?”

“Is that your way of tying this thing on me?” asked Fellowes truculently.

“Just one of my dam' silly questions,” said Lord Simon, recrossing his legs. “And now tell me something more
interestin'. What was there between you and Mrs. Thurston?”

This question seemed to produce a greater intensity in the atmosphere. Sam Williams looked up, and watched Fellowes keenly, while even Sergeant Beef seemed interested.

“Oh, that… prevaricated Fellowes. “Well, nothing really.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Well …”

“Come along, man. You're not going to pretend to be bashful, are you?”

“It wasn't anything to speak of. I suppose she'd taken rather a fancy to me.”

“Entirely unreciprocated by you, of course?”

“How do you mean?”

Sergeant Beef came manfully to the rescue. “'E means was you, or was you not, carrying on with the lady?”

Fellowes's answer was an odd one, and seemed to be the result of genuine embarrassment. “Not more than I could help,” he said.

“Did it worry you?”

“A bit.”

“Why?”

“Well, Dr. Thurston was all right. I didn't want anything like that.”

At this point I respected Fellowes. I felt that I could see in a moment all that had happened. Mary Thurston, indulgent, stupid, affectionate, having her little romantic
affaire
with this good-looking rather piratical young man. Nothing serious, of course. But she liked him about her. Liked his opening the door of the car and arranging the rugs for her. Probably gave him things, and expected little attentions such as young lovers show. Altogether rather like one of those stout and wealthy English and American women you see in Majorca with a youth attached to them.

“There was nothing else that worried you about it?”

“Only … when she wanted me to stop talking with her …”

“As she did last night?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, she complained of hearing rats in the apple-room, and told you to set the trap.”

“That's right, she did.”

“And did you set it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because … when I got to her door, I heard someone in there talking to her.”

“Who was it?”

“I don't know. A man.”

“Did you hear anything said?”

“No. I didn't stop to listen. I went on upstairs and set the trap.”

“What time would that have been?”

“Soon after eleven.”

“How do you know?”

“Looked at the kitchen clock.”

Whether it was the result of mental rehearsal, or honesty, or slick lying, I don't know, but I noticed that Fellowes gave his answers promptly and clearly. He scarcely ever paused.

“And having set the trap?”

“Went to my bedroom.”

“Undress?”

“No. Took my coat off.”

“Then?”

“Then, after a bit, I heard the screams.”

“Nothing else? Nothing before that?”

“No.”

“Keen on a bit of P.T., aren't you, Fellowes? Gymnastics, and what not?”

“Yes.”

“When did you go in the gymnasium last?”

“Not for about a week.”

“You didn't know, then, that the ropes were missing from there?”

“No.” The answer was sullen and quiet.

“In fact you know nothing more at all—nothing you want to tell us?”

“No.”

“But, my friend …” It was M. Amer Picon who broke in now, unable to repress himself any longer. “You have told us nothing—nothing at all to the point. There are many questions which you can, as you say, clear up. For instance, what did your young lady, your fiancee, think of Madame Thurston's so kindly attention to you?”

“What young lady?”