Off the Record (23 page)

It was six minutes before Jack returned.

‘This is all taking too long,’ said Rackham. ‘What on earth were you doing?’

Jack reached out his hand for the watch. ‘Why don’t you try?’ he suggested. ‘I’ll be surprised if you can cut the time down by much.’

Rackham arrived back in the lobby six minutes and forty-five seconds later. ‘I see what you mean, Jack,’ he said, pocketing the watch. ‘I don’t see how it can be done in much less.’

‘Hugo Ragnall was certain Ferguson was only absent for five minutes, wasn’t he?’

‘Absolutely certain,’ said Rackham disconsolately. ‘He’s signed a statement to that effect.’ He looked at the sergeant. ‘All right, Hawley, you can go.’

‘Five minutes is pushing it,’ said Jack, once Hawley had taken his leave. He pulled up a chair and, leaning forward to avoid the fronds of a potted palm, sat down at one of the low tables that dotted the lobby of the Marchmont. ‘I don’t know how long you spent wringing your hands and bewailing your fate, but I cut it down to the bare bone. I gathered from Ferguson that he spent some time having the heebie-jeebies. However,’ he added with a shrug, ‘it was a very subjective impression.’

‘Which Hugo Ragnall’s impression wasn’t,’ said Rackham, sitting down. ‘Having said that, he wasn’t standing there with a stopwatch. On the face of it, there isn’t much difference between five and six and a bit minutes or so.’ Rackham looked at Jack quizzically. ‘Could you talk to him? As you’re not official he might be a bit more forthcoming than he was with me.’

‘Why, Bill? As you say, there’s not much difference between five and six minutes.’

‘It’s not that so much, but I felt sure there was something he was holding back. It’s probably something and nothing, but until I know I can’t judge.’

‘If you like,’ said Jack with a shrug. ‘I can’t see why he should confide in me, though. I’ve never cast eyes on the bloke.’

‘He knows you, though.’ Rackham grinned. ‘He’s a fan of yours.’

‘What?’ Jack looked startled.

‘He said he’d read nearly everything you’d written.’

‘Poor devil. You can get treatment for that sort of thing.’

‘And one of his pals was a pal of yours in the war.’

‘Really? Who?’

‘I don’t know, but he’s in Kenya now, apparently. As I say, I wouldn’t mind if you asked him. There’s one thing for sure, though, Hugo Ragnall’s statement lets Ferguson out completely. He can’t possibly have got up to Dunbar’s room, shot him and arranged it all to look like a suicide – even that cack-handed attempt to make it look like a suicide – in five or six minutes.’ Rackham took a couple of cigarettes from his case, tossed one to Jack, and lit it gloomily. ‘I wish people wouldn’t hold things back. If Ragnall had told us what he’d seen in the first place, we wouldn’t have ever had Ferguson in the frame, or wasted time thinking about Mrs Dunbar.’

‘It’d have saved Ferguson a bad few days, too, poor devil.’

‘Absolutely. He should have owned up, as should that precious mother of his.’

‘I don’t know I really blame him for that. Why didn’t Ragnall come forward sooner, though?’

‘Because we’d nabbed Gerard Carrington. He didn’t think it would make any difference. He didn’t want to contradict what Ferguson had said and he was unhappy about being mixed up with the police. He’s not the only one who didn’t tell us everything. There’s the post-boy and your Mrs Gledburn, too.’ Rackham gave a discontented sigh. ‘The way this is going I can believe there’s a witness out there who saw someone leave Dunbar’s room carrying a smoking gun and didn’t know it’s relevant and doesn’t think it’d be nice to mention it. This is less like a murder and more like a conjuring trick. Have you got any ideas? I’m fresh out and the Chief’s none too happy about it.’

‘There was something,’ said Jack, tapping the ash reflectively from his cigarette. ‘You said it was like a conjuring trick. Now we’ve narrowed the time down even further, I couldn’t agree more. We’ve concentrated on a very few people, but couldn’t there be a Mr X? Someone that Dunbar did down in business, perhaps? Rather than happening on the odd few minutes when he could get in Dunbar’s room by chance, he could be lying in wait for the coast to be clear.’

Rackham looked up, suddenly alert. ‘And that means . . .?’

‘And that means he, or if it was a Miss X, she, was here. Here, in the hotel, as a guest, in an adjacent room, where he or she could keep a careful watch on Dunbar’s comings and goings.’

‘You could be right.’ Rackham got to his feet and nodded towards the reception desk. ‘Let’s ask the manager, shall we?’

Mr Sutton greeted them with threadbare politeness. ‘Have you finished, Inspector?’

‘Not quite, sir.’

‘I had hoped this matter would have been cleared up before now. I have the reputation of the hotel to think about.’

‘I appreciate that, sir,’ replied Rackham, smoothly. ‘However, these things take time, you know, and there’s a chance you may be able to help us further.’

‘We need to see the guest list for the fifteenth of July,’ said Jack. ‘We’re particularly interested in anyone you don’t know. That won’t exclude them, of course,’ he added in an undertone to Rackham, ‘but if they’re a frequent visitor to the hotel, it makes them a bit more doubtful.’

‘Very good, gentlemen,’ said Mr Sutton. ‘If you would care to come into my office, I will have the Residents’ Register brought to you.’

Once installed in the office with Mr Sutton in attendance, Rackham ran through the list of names for the fifteenth of July. ‘As far as I can see, there’s five rooms which are prime candidates,’ he said. ‘The two on either side of Dunbar’s room and the three facing.’

Jack looked at the floor plan. ‘Dunbar was in Room 206, so that’s 205, 207 and 217, 218 and 219.’

Rackham turned up the register. ‘205 was occupied by a Mr and Mrs Carlton Eccles.’

‘They’re fairly regular visitors,’ said Mr Sutton. ‘He’s a pottery manufacturer from the Midlands. They’re a quiet, most respectable couple.’

Rackham nodded, looking at the address. ‘Room 207 was empty. Across the corridor in 217 was a Miss Emily Stephenson from Northampton.’

‘I am unable to recall Miss Stephenson but one of my staff might be able to help you.’

‘In number 219 there’s Mr and Mrs Rowland Harris of York.’

‘They’ve stayed with us before,’ the manager said. ‘A very pleasant and quietly spoken couple.’

‘And in number 218 there’s a chap who’s presumably an Irishman, Mr Patrick Mullaney of Dublin.’

‘A most quiet, reserved gentleman.’

Quiet
seemed to be the highest praise Mr Sutton could bestow upon a guest, Jack decided. He tapped his finger on the entry for Mr Mullaney. ‘I see he booked into the hotel on the thirteenth, but changed his room.’

Mr Sutton readjusted his pince-nez and peered at the entry. ‘That’s quite correct. Now why . . .? Ah yes, the reason is noted here. Mr Mullaney’s original room was on the third floor and he requested a move to 218 so as to be nearer the stairs. I remember now. I dealt with him myself. We make every effort to accommodate our guests’ wishes, especially in the case of an elderly man such as Mr Mullaney.’

Rackham looked disappointed. ‘Elderly, you say?’

‘I don’t suppose he had a beard, by any chance?’ asked Jack.

‘A beard?’ Mr Sutton was surprised by the question. ‘Yes, he did, as a matter of fact.’

‘A long beard?’ asked Jack. ‘And side-whiskers, too, perhaps? I imagine he wore tinted glasses as well.’

Mr Sutton was puzzled. ‘Yes, he did, now you come to mention it, although how you know, I cannot imagine. He explained he had weak eyes and had to shield them from the light. He said he was writing a book on – now what was it? – the Celtic church, as I recall, and was pursuing his researches in the British Museum. I remember thinking how venerable he looked. Really, quite the model of an elderly scholar.’

‘And did Mr Mullaney dine in the restaurant or in his room?’

Mr Sutton frowned in remembrance. ‘He dined in his room, as I recall. Yes, that’s right. As I say, he was a quiet, reserved gentleman,’ he added in reproof.

‘Absolutely,’ muttered Jack softly. ‘That’s him.’

‘Well, Bill, what d’you think of that?’ asked Jack triumphantly as they walked up Southampton Row. ‘Have we just had a description of the real murderer or have we not?’

‘An elderly, bearded, Irish scholar?’

‘The age is simulated, the beard is assumed and the accent’s phoney. Add the weak eyes and a retiring habit and you’ve got a man who defies description. Come on. All Mr Sutton really saw was a mass of hair and a pair of dark glasses. No one nowadays goes round with a beard like an exploding mattress. As my editor said the other day, one bloke in a beard looks like any other bloke in a beard. He has to be dodgy.’

‘And how are you going to prove these breathtaking assertions?’ asked Rackham mildly. ‘Looking for a Patrick Mullaney in Dublin will be like trying to look for a needle in a haystack. You can put it down to experience or divine inspiration or whatever you like but I can’t see us finding him to ask him outright. He booked not by letter but in person, hadn’t stayed at the hotel before, left no forwarding address, and God only knows where he is now.’

‘You could try the British Museum to see if they’ve got any record of him. But what if he proves not to have existed at all?’

‘That’ll be damn difficult to prove, Jack.’

‘What is it?’ asked Jack, looking at his friend curiously. ‘I tell you there’s a Mr X, produce a man who fits the bill and instead of clapping me on the shoulder, you look as if you’re sucking lemons.’

Rackham wriggled unhappily. ‘It was something Hugo Ragnall said. It wasn’t part of his official statement, of course, but he said it all the same. He believes we got it right in the first place and Gerard Carrington is our man. He’s sympathetic to Carrington as he freely admits Dunbar was the frozen limit, but he still thinks Carrington did it. What’s more, so does Lewis. He’s sympathetic too, apparently, but he believes it all the same. And I must say, I think they’ve got a point.’

‘But I
proved
Carrington couldn’t have done it.’

‘You made it impossible to proceed with the case against him, Jack. It’s not quite the same thing. So an Irishman stayed at the Marchmont. So what? He could be perfectly genuine, you know, even if he did look like Old Father Time. I think what’s really bothering me is that Hugo Ragnall was talking about something he knew, which was Carrington’s character. Look at the way it’s completely taken for granted that Carrington’s temper was so uncertain that there was almost an expectation he’d lose his rag with Dunbar. That’s why Ragnall was at the Marchmont in the first place and why Stephen Lewis suggested his wife should meet Carrington for tea. If Ragnall’s right and Carrington is our man, then we can run round after Mr X forever, without getting anywhere. And you must admit that although we’ve had some promising leads, the other suspects have turned out to be duds. I’ve got a feeling that this is going to turn out to be the sort of case where we’ve got a very good idea who the guilty man is but we’ll never be able to prove it.’

‘The guilty man being Carrington?’

Rackham didn’t answer.

‘I think,’ said Jack, ‘that I’d better take you up on your suggestion and go and see Hugo Ragnall.’

Jack found Hugo Ragnall ensconced by files and papers in the study at Mottram Place, a pleasant airy room overlooking the street. It had been kitted out as an office and Hugo Ragnall was obviously a busy man. As the maid showed him in, Ragnall stood up with a puzzled, although friendly, expression.

‘Major Haldean? I heard the doorbell but I thought it was the telegram boy.’

‘We arrived at the same time,’ said Jack with a smile. ‘You’ll excuse me dropping in like this, but I understand you saw Inspector Rackham this morning.’

‘Yes?’ said Ragnall, suddenly alert. ‘How’s Ferguson?’

‘It looks as if he’s going to be all right.’

Ragnall breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I felt guilty that I hadn’t come forward sooner but it never occurred to me he’d be suspected. It’s no joke, telling the police you were on the spot when a murder was committed.’ He turned a pencil over and over between nervous fingers. ‘Is that why you came? To tell me about Ferguson?’

‘As a matter of fact, no. It was just idle curiosity, really. Inspector Rackham mentioned that you knew an old friend of mine, a bloke who’s out in Kenya. I couldn’t think who it could be.’

Hugo Ragnall’s face cleared. ‘Oh, I see.’ He gave a rather forced laugh. ‘For a moment I thought you were going to quiz me about what I’d said to the inspector.’

As that was precisely Jack’s intention, he schooled his face into blank innocence. ‘Quiz you? About a statement you made to the police? I don’t think so. It’s not really any of my business, is it? No, I just wondered who this old pal was.’

Hugo Ragnall’s mind was obviously running on another track and the question seemed to catch him off guard. ‘Your old pal? His name’s Carslake.’

This was a bit of an effort, but Jack kept going. ‘What, Johnnie Carslake? I’ve lost touch with him completely but we were great pals at one time. I didn’t know he’d ended up in Kenya.’

Ragnall made an obvious attempt to concentrate. ‘He’s been out there a couple of years. He’s the manager of a coffee plantation.’

‘I’d love to catch up on his news,’ said Jack. Hugo Ragnall was trying hard, but he was as twitchy as a kitten. Why, for heaven’s sake? ‘I don’t know what time you finish for the day but I did wonder if you’d care to have a drink and bring me up to date. There’s a very decent pub not far from here, The Floating Light. I don’t know if you know it? They do excellent grub, too, if you fancy a bite to eat.’

‘I . . . I’d like to, yes,’ said Ragnall. ‘Yes, I’d enjoy that. Why don’t I meet you there in twenty minutes or so?’ He tapped the letters on the desk. ‘That’ll give me time to clear away here.’