Dictator's Way (7 page)

“Nothing I can do. Rigor's set in already, look at the neck.”

“Do you know him, sir?” Ulyett asked Judson.

Judson had become very pale. He was trembling slightly. He stammered:

“It's Macklin. Macklin. One of my staff, manager of the coal export branch. I don't understand.”

The activity in the house became intense as there began the usual busy routine of an investigation. With it, of course, now that it had passed into the hands of the specialists, Bobby had for the moment little to do.

The next hour or two in fact he spent patiently doing nothing, in which indeed consists a large share of the work of the C.I.D. Meanwhile the experts and specialists bustled about, arrived, consulted, departed. The photographer photographed; the finger-print expert used up enormous quantities of his grey powder; a famous pathologist strolled in; an eager journalist, forerunner of a host of others, made an excited appearance, though how he had come to hear so soon of what had happened, not even he himself seemed to know. Instinct, perhaps, or the mysterious workings of the unconscious, since that nowadays can be used to explain anything. Or more probably the mere sight of three or four cars in procession with uniformed policemen in one of them. The burnt ash in the overturned dustbin was carefully collected – something for Hendon to try its teeth on, as one man with little faith in science remarked scornfully to Bobby. Of the three one-pound notes the one with the stain upon it was marked for the analyst, in the hope that he might be able to say whether the stain was really blood, and, if so, if it belonged to the same group as that of the victim. The famous medical expert and the police surgeon ended at last their long discussion by arriving at the same conclusions – or rather by arriving at the famous medical expert's conclusions, since the police surgeon was a prudent man and knew who carried the heavier guns. And in one of the smaller rooms sat Superintendent Ulyett, interviewing everybody in turn, taking reports and statements, issuing instructions.

It was getting on for the small hours before at last he sent for Bobby who had already written out a full report of the evening's events as they concerned him. Ulyett asked a few questions on various details and informed Bobby that the doctors seemed fairly certain that death had taken place about, or soon after, five o'clock that evening.

“They seem more certain about the time than doctors are as a rule,” Ulyett remarked, not quite sure whether to be pleased by, or suspicious of, such unusual dogmatism. “Say there are two or three different pointers they can go by. What's odd, though, is that they say suffocation was the cause of death.”

“Suffocation,” repeated Bobby, very surprised. “Not the head injury?”

“No. They say that was a nasty crack all right and probably knocked the chap out. Fractured the skull, but not necessarily fatal. The way they figure it is that somebody clubbed him and he passed out. But he recovered sufficiently to try to 'phone. He may have been too weak and collapsed or he may even have forgotten what he wanted to do – he must have been in a dazed state – or he may have put his call through. No telling. Anyhow, he must have touched both the receiver and the dial after being knocked out because of blood stains on them that agree with his fingerprints. But when you found the body it was lying some distance away and the doctors are clear death resulted from suffocation. They've found a cushion on one of the chairs with marks of blood and sputum on it.”

Bobby listened gravely. He seemed to see the picture so clearly. A quarrel or dispute of some kind. A blow given with something blunt and heavy – something in the shape of a life-preserver perhaps, or even a heavy walking-stick. There flashed back into Bobby's memory a recollection of Waveny's cane – the ‘Penang Lawyer' with the heavy silver fitting to the handle. Afterwards the injured man recovering to some degree and trying to get to the 'phone to summon help. And his assailant, panic-stricken, dragging him away, completing the dreadful task.

There seemed thus introduced into the affair an element of fiendish cold-bloodedness. Bobby's mouth set in grim, hard lines. A blow, even a fatal blow, might be given in sudden passion, without malice or premeditation, but this slow and deliberate completion of the deed was different altogether. To Bobby, too, it seemed that about the method used, suffocation, there was something especially repulsive. Who was guilty of such a deed must not be let go free, must answer for it to the full.

“No money, no watch, no valuables, no papers, on the body,” Ulyett said abruptly. “Looks like a robbery and murder. Where did the three pound notes come from and what were they doing outside there?”

Bobby had no answer to make. Ulyett went on:

“You heard Mr. Judson identify him as one of his staff. Mark Macklin's the name. Had a good job apparently. Manager of the coal export department. Judson says he was at the office this morning as usual, up to lunch time, anyhow. He's not sure after that. Says Macklin was often out, hunting business. Doesn't seem to know much about him out of office hours. We've got his address though, a flat in St. John's Wood. When we go through it, we may get a pointer or two. Judson can't account for Macklin's presence here.”

“I believe Macklin used to see to things when Mr. Judson was asking friends here,” Bobby said.

“Judson mentioned that,” agreed Ulyett, “but he says nothing of the kind was in prospect at present. Judson gave Macklin the key if there was anything on like that, but Macklin always returned it. I suppose he could easily have had another made.”

“It seems a little unusual,” Bobby remarked, “for the manager of a department to arrange his employer's private parties. More like a secretary's job.”

“Judson mentioned that. Said it was Macklin's own idea. It was worth an invite to him and then Judson says his secretary at the office is a girl, quite efficient and all that, but he didn't want to risk shocking her, as he admits the affairs were a bit unconventional. But he won't have it there is anything in the stories of the films shown being a trifle hot. Says they were generally ‘Mickey Mouse', only sometimes they were war pictures from Spain or that sort of thing – one of a lynching scene in America, for instance. All right in a way, but not quite the thing for public showing. I put it to him the play was pretty high, and he hummed and ha'd a bit, and said his friends were mostly people used to risking big sums on the Stock Exchange and it wasn't high for them. He let out Macklin was rather a plunger, but says he generally won. Judson claims there was always a limit to the play but admits it varied.”

“Did he give the names of any of the people he used to ask?” Bobby inquired.

“Refused point blank,” Ulyett answered. “Says they are all important people and in good positions and he's not going to mix them up in a thing like this if he can help it. We'll have a try to find out on our own, or he may change his mind.”

“It looks to me as if there must be some connection between Judson's parties and Macklin coming here to-day,” Bobby mused.

“I pressed Judson two or three times, but he stuck to it, he can't account for it at all. I suppose it is just possible Macklin remembered something that needed attention, came along, disturbed a tramp or someone who thought an empty house made a nice, rent-free shelter. Macklin may have threatened to give him in charge and the tramp knocked him out and then when Macklin tried to 'phone for help, finished him off. Only there's no sign of the presence of any tramp and no sign of forcible entry.”

“If it was like that, it's difficult, too, to explain the pound notes left by the back door,” Bobby remarked. “They hardly looked as if they had been dropped accidentally. Then there's the paper someone burnt out there.”

“May have nothing to do with it,” Ulyett said. “May have been something the murderer wanted to get rid of. Envelope with an address or paper he had cleaned his hands on or anything. Don't see much help there. Now, about this Mr. Waveny who called on you. What's his address? You don't give it.”

But Bobby didn't know it nor had he much information to offer about Mr. Waveny. Until to-day, he had not seen him since the occasion when they had played against each other in an inter-college football match. But it would not be difficult, Bobby thought, to find him.

“Swell, is he? An ‘hon.' and all that,” grumbled Ulyett, who disliked very much having anything to do with ‘swells'. One never knew what they might be up to, behind the scenes. You pinched someone for misbehaving and then found half the peerage, and all the bench of bishops, ready to swear to his respectability. As if other peers, and the bench of bishops, ever saw the nonrespectable side. Well, it was all in the day's work. “Have to be asked a few questions,” decided Ulyett. “Pick him up and bring him along to the Yard as soon as you can. Make that your first job.”

“Very good, sir,” said Bobby.

“I suppose,” Ulyett continued, “Waveny could have reached here before you and got away again without your seeing him?”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby uncomfortably. “I didn't hurry, I don't think I came the nearest way, and I stopped to have some tea. And anyone could have left by the back without my having any chance of seeing them.”

“Made a point of your not coming along here before tomorrow, didn't he?” Ulyett went on. “Must know something all right. If we dig up any connection between him and Macklin –”

He left the sentence unfinished and Bobby said nothing but felt more uncomfortable still.

Rather awful to think of Waveny like that. Well, he wouldn't, not just yet, anyhow. Ten to one Waveny would have a perfectly plain, simple, straightforward explanation to give.

“Have to pick up Duke Clarence, too,” Ulyett went on. “What was he doing here? Got a record, hasn't he?”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby, “but if he had anything to do with it, would he still have been hanging around? He strikes me as the type whose first instinct would be to run.” Bobby added slowly: “To my mind, almost the oddest thing in the whole case is the anonymous letter accusing Clarence of being guilty of the murder of that woman who was found dead in Hackney somewhere. It wasn't murder at all, it's quite clear Clarence never knew her and had nothing to do with it, so what can have been the idea?”

“Spite,” suggested Ulyett. “It generally is. Someone had it in for him. May have really thought he had something to do with it, or else just wanted to put him in bad with us. Anyhow, he ought to be able to say something and perhaps give us a description of the chap he talked about who annoyed the lady. We want both of them. Good thing you got her car number – if it was hers. If you can't find Waveny at once, you had better get in touch with her as soon as we trace her. She may be more willing to talk to you as she's seen you before, and as this affair won't be in the morning papers you can tell her about it and see what she has to say and if she seems to know anything.”

“Very good, sir,” said Bobby.

“If she can give any information about the man said to have been annoying her, it may be very important. Bring her along to the Yard but have a talk to her first. More informal, she may be willing to say more. Hang it all, Owen, with all these people buzzing round the place just at the time a murder was being committed, they must know something.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby. “Did Mr. Judson say where he happened to be about five?”

Ulyett stared and then pulled thoughtfully at his chin. “He did. Said he was in the City till late. That's why we got him at once when we 'phoned his office. He was still there. No reason to suspect him, I suppose?”

“Oh, no, sir,” said Bobby.

Ulyett sighed and looked at his watch.

“I'm going home to bed,” he said. “Even a couple of hours is better than nothing and we can't do much more till morning. Mr. Judson has given us a free hand here and Rose is arranging for two of his men to stay. As soon as it's light there'll have to be a thorough search of the grounds – of the house, too, in case anything's been overlooked. I've told Ferris to arrange for a squad.”

“Shall I stay too, sir?” Bobby asked. “I should like another look round myself when it's light, and I could explain where it was Clarence and I scrapped, and so on.”

“All right,” said Ulyett. “Get a bit of sleep while you can.”

“Lots of comfortable chairs here, sir,” Bobby remarked, and in fact managed to get an hour or two of good sound sleep on one of the settees. Then, soon after daybreak, he was out in the grounds, ready for the search-party when presently it arrived.

The weather had been dry recently so that the ground was generally hard and in no condition to take impressions easily. But one of the searchers found a spot near the house, in the shelter of a tree, where somebody had apparently been resting for a considerable time, to judge from various marks and signs, and from the stumps of two cigars lying near. A band also found near identified the cigars as a cheap and not very popular Swiss make. Two cigar stumps did not seem a very promising clue to the identity of the smoker but they and the band, with the name of the make on it, were carefully preserved.

The other discovery was one that Bobby made. By the short piece of private road known as ‘Dictator's Way' was a patch of ground kept almost permanently damp by water draining from the shrubbery. Here were plainly visible tyre marks showing a large car had been standing for some time. Footprints were also visible where presumably the occupants of the car had descended and left their traces on the damp ground before reaching the hard dry road surface. There were two sets of these impressions, one set larger than the other. Bobby called attention to them, they were carefully examined and measured, plaster casts were made, photographs taken, and presently, on trials being carried out, it was found that the shoes worn by Macklin fitted the smaller prints exactly. The larger prints were less distinct and clear, all that could be said for certain was that they had been made by a much taller man.