Here Comes a Chopper (31 page)

It was Bob who picked Dorothy up, snarling evilly at Roger as he did so. Dorothy recovered almost before he had laid her on the settee. She sat up immediately, apologized, and then told the story of the fire alarm and the bust. At the end of this recital Mrs Bradley nodded.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that is what happened. I myself raised that alarm of fire on purpose. It had interesting repercussions.’

‘And where are the bones now?’ enquired Eunice Pigdon, who appeared unaffected by the narrative.

‘In the keeping of the police,’ Mrs Bradley responded. ‘This is where the inspector takes up the story.’

‘There’s little to tell,’ said the inspector. ‘We had our suspicions. Well, it seems as if we were wrong. As for the bones, Mrs Bradley was right about them. She said it was an old trick, in that she’d met it before, but I’m free to admit that it would not have occurred to the police.’

‘It wouldn’t have occurred to me,’ said Roger. ‘What bones exactly are we discussing?’

‘The bones of the dead man’s head. They were in the bust which I dropped on the fender in Dorothy’s room.’

‘In the bust? Then—but——’

‘I know. We cannot prove who put them there, however great our suspicions may be. Still, we do know one thing. A second bust, which I had placed in the gap left when I broke the first one, was claimed and carried off during the alarm of fire.’

‘Who claimed it?’ demanded Eunice Pigdon. ‘Not——’

‘Yes, Captain Ranmore burst in and took it away. That doesn’t prove anything, of course.’

‘I should have thought it did!’ said Roger. ‘Isn’t it
a maxim that a person picks up the most precious things he possesses? If Ranmore is the murderer, and had hidden the head in this rather peculiar, cold-blooded sort of way, wouldn’t he naturally make a bee-line for it.’

‘I think it could be shown with some success that it was not the bust he desired to save from the fire,’ said Mrs Bradley, grinning horribly.

‘What?’ said Roger, going very pale and then becoming flushed. He looked at Dorothy.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I told you at the beginning of these revelations that I wanted proof to lay before a jury. Well, I regret to say that the majority of persons on a jury would prefer to believe that a handsome, courteous, fatherly, middle-aged man such as Captain Ranmore, would naturally rush to the rescue of a young, pretty, charming, delightful child such as Dorothy here. You even prefer to believe it yourself, my dear Roger,’ she added, favouring the so-far luckless suitor with a ferocious leer.

‘I’ll break his bloody neck,’ said Roger, in low and savage tones.

‘Mind your own damned business,’ said Bob, glaring at Roger across the room.

‘Bob, too,’ said Mrs Bradley, clicking her tongue. ‘Will no one spare a fancy for the bones?’

‘Mary Leith,’ said Eunice softly. Mrs Bradley glanced at her.

‘What do you mean?’ enquired Clare Dunley. ‘I shouldn’t have thought poor Mary knew about the bones.’

‘She saw poor Granny shot in the leg,’ said Eunice Pigdon, betraying her own state of mind. ‘I understand everything now.’

‘More than I do,’ muttered Roger. Mrs Bradley transferred her gaze to him.

‘What would you like to understand, child?’ she enquired.

‘First,’ said Roger belligerently, ‘I’d like to know why Mrs Denbies was arrested. If you didn’t really suspect her, why should she have been put to all that loathsome inconvenience?’

‘She was very strongly suspected,’ said Mrs Bradley, replying to the question although it had not been addressed to her but to the inspector.

‘And with reason!’ said Clare Dunley very dryly. All the company looked at her. She smoothed her silk skirt over her knees and looked down at her strong hands as she performed the action. She did not attempt to meet their eyes. ‘If ever any woman had cause to murder any man, I should say it was Claudia Denbies.’

‘Did he treat her very badly?’ asked Bob. ‘I daresay she deserved it. Women usually do.’

‘Speak for those you know better than you know me!’ said Dorothy; but Roger, looking curiously at Clare Dunley, said:

‘Go on.’

‘Oh, I needn’t enlarge,’ said Clare, but still with her eyes cast down. ‘You all know the sort of thing I mean. Time for her one day, and no time the next. Broke engagements, left her flat—oh, not
once or even twice, but time after time. I don’t know why she stood it.’

‘Oh, they weren’t married, you know,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Did you think they were? You should have been present at the inquest.’ The effect of these words was alarming. Clare Dunley sprang up, and so did Eunice Pigdon. They stood, with clenched hands, glaring at one another as though only lack of practice in such matters prevented them from springing on one another.

‘You—you——!’ began Eunice Pigdon.

‘How—I—I——’ said Clare Dunley. Then both flushed hotly, looked foolish, and while Clare resumed her seat and prodded the edge of the fender with her shoe, Eunice got up and went towards the door.

‘Begging your pardon, Miss Pigdon,’ said the inspector, ‘but if you wouldn’t mind, just for ten minutes——’ He motioned towards the chair she had left, and Eunice Pigdon obediently returned and sat down.

‘I suppose I’ve given myself away nicely,’ she remarked. She spoke quietly, as though she were making a not uncharitable remark about someone else, someone whom, perhaps, she did not know particularly well.

‘Yes. We’ve both been fools,’ said Clare Dunley. ‘I’m sorry, Eunice. We’re both in the same boat, I suppose.’

‘I never thought it was Claudia,’ said Eunice Pigdon. ‘I knew her pretty well, and, although I
was glad to see her taken up, I never thought the cap fitted.’

‘Interesting,’ remarked Mrs Bradley. ‘And you, Mrs Dunley?’

‘Oh, I didn’t know. I didn’t care. He was dead. That was all I cared about.’

‘Do you still?’ asked Eunice Pigdon. The two women suddenly seemed to have become reconciled, as though to have exchanged murderous rivalry for friendship were the obvious and normal thing for them to have done.

‘I suppose so. I don’t know,’ Clare Dunley answered. There was a long silence. The inspector looked at his watch. As he did so, there was the sound of a car outside. He got up.

‘If you will excuse me, ladies,’ he said.

‘Thank goodness!’ said Dorothy involuntarily, the moment the door closed behind him.

‘I don’t know. There is worse to come,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘You see, Mr Lingfield isn’t dead.’

Clare Dunley went red and Eunice Pigdon white. Nobody else looked surprised, much less taken aback, by this pronouncement. Roger felt, now that the statement had been made, that he had known it for a very long time. Dorothy, too, saw it now as a foregone conclusion.

‘Then he is the murderer,’ said Roger, ‘and Claudia was right when she said—and stuck to it—that it wasn’t Lingfield’s body that she saw.’

‘I never thought it was,’ said Mrs Bradley.

‘What about the proofs, though?’ said Bob. ‘Didn’t you say you couldn’t prove it?’

‘Well, Mary Leith is prepared to swear that it was Mr Lingfield who shot Captain Ranmore in the leg to keep him out of the summer-house. The point is to find Mr Lingfield. Once we can produce him alive the deed is done. The trouble is that the police can’t find him, and, although Mary Leith is convinced that he is alive, she doesn’t know where he is.’

‘But——’ said Bob and Dorothy together. ‘He must surely be off to South America by now,’ concluded Bob, who had filled and lighted his pipe, and was smoking placidly. Roger grunted but did not speak. He had been struck by a brilliant but, he suspected, a foolish idea.

‘Well, I’ll say good night,’ said Eunice Pigdon.

‘Good night,’ said Clare Dunley, going with her to the door. Roger leapt up to open it for them, but as he got there the inspector turned the handle and came in.

The three started back, but the inspector waved a large, pale hand and gave an indulgent smile.

‘Quite all right, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Just a little spot of bother with Lady Catherine, but the nurse can cope nicely now. All we want to complete the party is Mr Lingfield.’

‘You can’t find him?’ exclaimed Mary Leith, appearing in the hall just behind the inspector’s shoulder. ‘What can you prove against him when you do?’

‘Nothing at all at present, miss,’ the inspector cheerfully replied. ‘But we
would
like to ask him why he allowed us to hold an inquest on him, and
what he can tell us about the body that wasn’t his!’

He stood aside, and the two women who were in love with Harry Lingfield went to their beds. Roger saw Clare Dunley take Mary Leith by the arm and compel her upstairs. Eunice Pigdon followed.

Mrs Bradley looked at Bob, who rose awkwardly, scowled, and said good night. When he had gone, she smiled at Roger and Dorothy and waved a yellow claw.

‘The inspector and I want to talk things over,’ she said. ‘“Lovers to bed! ’Tis almost fairy time.” By the way, I found out about Benjamin’s sack. Now we are alone—you won’t mind the inspector, I know!—I can tell you about your mysterious seven and sixpence.’

‘I wish you would,’ said Roger.

‘It did not come from Bugle and Sim, as you supposed, but was a present from Lady Catherine. I got it out of Bugle, although with some difficulty. He seemed to find her point of view indelicate. I pointed out to him, however, that there is either nothing or everything indelicate about marriage. It depends on the point of view.’

‘Marriage?’ said Roger. ‘Good Lord! The price of the licence! I suppose,’ he added, ‘Mary Leith looks careworn because she’s been Lady Catherine’s keeper for so long.’

‘And had been doing her best to keep Lady Catherine’s mental condition a secret,’ said the inspector. ‘Yes, sir, you’ve guessed it in one. And she’s now on the verge of a breakdown.’

‘There’s another thing I’ve guessed,’ said Roger carelessly. ‘Why don’t you look for Lingfield in London?’

‘The Yard have been on to that for weeks, sir. If
they
don’t find him,
we
can’t!’

J
OHN
H
ALL OF
D
URHAM
,
The Call

‘WE’VE GOT THIS,
then, mam,’ said the inspector. ‘As soon as we get hold of Lingfield he’ll have to explain away the inquest. He can’t pretend he doesn’t know of it. It’s been in all the newspapers, and the local papers had a very full account. Then he’s got to explain away the murder of Sim——’

‘Can you charge him with the murder of Sim?’ asked Mrs Bradley.

‘I reckon we’ve got it pretty well weighed up, mam. Sim blackmailed him all right, I’ll take my oath. I’ve just had word that Mrs Denbies has been released. My bet is that she knows something more than she’s said, although there’s nothing to hold
her for if—as the Yard has advised us to do—we accept your view of her innocence. She did go out that night, and she did go to see Vesper. He was only just out of jug, we find—or, rather, the Yard found for us—and it seems to have been his own suggestion that they should meet very secretly, so as not to prejudice her with her public by allowing it to be known she consorted with criminals. We found the letter among her things.’

‘Why didn’t she produce it in court?’

‘It appears—we’ve confronted her with all this and challenged her to deny it—the sergeant was handy there, him having the grand passion for her—not as that’s very suitable in a police officer, but there it is, and there isn’t any arguing with emotions—it appears that she thought from the first that the letter was phony, and really came from Lingfield. She came across with that, and it’s contributory evidence in support of your tip that Lingfield isn’t dead. We made her—at least, the sergeant did (he don’t want her hanged!)—we made her swear to the date Lingfield tore his trousers, and then put the doctors on to that. The scars on the corpse were years older! The bet is that Lingfield had had the murder planned for years!’

‘I see. She’s been shielding Mr Lingfield?’

‘As far as she could. There’s no doubt she was in love with him, I should say.’

‘And, in his way, no doubt, he was in love with her,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘He committed murder to remove her husband, it appears, and even went
to the length of lacerating himself on barbed wire in preparation for the deed. Well, well!’

‘It’s a strange thing, in a country like England,’ said the inspector, ‘that love—if you can call it that—is responsible for more murders than any other motive murderers have. It don’t seem to go with a steady and God-fearing nation, somehow, mam. Now take my sergeant, as I say—though, mind you, he’s had his uses! There’s a young fellow as sensible as you could wish in the ordinary way, but what does he go and say, the minute we’ve fixed it all on Lingfield and have only to get him to put him where we want him?’

‘He probably said it was a pity,’ said Mrs Bradley.

‘His very words, mam! “It seems a pity, don’t it?” he says, looking more like a piece of cheese than any sergeant of mine has a right to look. “After all the poor feller went through to get her, it seems a pity that we should be after him like a couple of condemned bloodhounds.” Told him off I did, good and proper, and finished up by telling him to think of the lady’s good name, and not to be wishing a double murderer on her for a husband. “Besides,” I said, “we haven’t caught him yet.”

‘He looks at me as if he could cry. “Think of the lady! I only wish as how I
dared
think of her!” he says. Now, I ask you, mam, if that’s any way for an ambitious officer to talk. And got brains in his head, mind you, at that. It was him found out that your chauffeur, George, hid the young lady in your garage while Miss Menzies, your secretary, mam,
took Mr Hoskyn out of the murderer’s way. They were Sim’s prints on that spanner.’

‘Ah, yes, Laura prefers the lively, picturesque method of achieving her effects,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I heard of the pyjama-trouser hunt. My French cook, who played a small part, enjoyed that affair immensely.’