Taken at the Flood (10 page)

I
t was the custom at the Stag for guests to be called at whatever hour they named by the simple process of a loud bang on the door and the shouted information that it was “Eight-thirty, sir,” or “Eight o'clock” whatever the case might be. Early tea was produced if expressly stipulated for, and was deposited with a rattle of crockery on the mat outside the door.

On this particular Wednesday morning, young Gladys went through the usual formula outside No. 5, yelling out, “Eight-fifteen, sir,” and crashing down the tray with a bang that slopped the milk out of the jug. She then went on her way, calling more people and proceeding to her other duties.

It was ten o'clock before she took in the fact that No. 5's tea was still on the mat.

She beat a few heavy raps on the door, got no reply and therupon walked in.

No. 5 was not the kind of gentleman who overslept himself,
and she had just remembered that there was a convenient flat roof outside the window. It was just possible, thought Gladys, that No. 5 had done a bunk without paying his bill.

But the man registered as Enoch Arden had not done a bunk. He was lying on his face in the middle of the room and without any knowledge of medicine, Gladys had no doubt whatever that he was dead.

Gladys threw back her head and screamed, then rushed out of the room and down the stairs, still screaming.

“Ow, Miss Lippincott—Miss Lippincott—ow—”

Beatrice Lippincott was in her private room having a cut hand bandaged by Dr. Lionel Cloade—the latter dropped the bandage and turned irritably as the girl burst in.

“Ow,
Miss!
”

The doctor snapped:

“What is it? What is it?”

“What's the matter, Gladys?” asked Beatrice.

“It's the gentleman in No. 5, Miss. He's lying there on the floor, dead.”

The doctor stared at the girl and then at Miss Lippincott: the latter stared at Gladys and then at the doctor.

Finally, Dr. Cloade said uncertainly:

“Nonsense.”

“Dead as a doornail,” said Gladys, and added with a certain relish: “'Is 'ead's bashed in!”

The doctor looked towards Miss Lippincott.

“Perhaps I'd better—”

“Yes, please, Dr. Cloade. But really—I hardly think—it seems so impossible.”

They trooped upstairs, Gladys leading the way. Dr. Cloade took one look, knelt down and bent over the recumbent figure.

He looked up at Beatrice. His manner had changed. It was abrupt, authoritative.

“You'd better telephone through to the police station,” he said.

Beatrice Lippincott went out, Gladys followed her.

Gladys said in an awed whisper:

“Ow, Miss, do you think it's
murder?
”

Beatrice smoothed back her golden pompadour with an agitated hand.

“You hold your tongue, Gladys,” she said sharply. “Saying a thing's murder before you
know
it's murder is libel and you might be had up in court for it. It'll do the Stag no good to have a lot of gossip going about.” She added, as a gracious concession: “You can go and make yourself a nice cup of tea. I dare say you need it.”

“Yes, indeed, Miss, I do. My inside's fair turning over! I'll bring you along a cup, too!”

To which Beatrice did not say No.

S
uperintendent Spence looked thoughtfully across his table at Beatrice Lippincott, who was sitting with her lips compressed tightly together.

“Thank you, Miss Lippincott,” he said. “That's all you can remember? I'll have it typed out for you to read and then if you wouldn't mind signing it—”

“Oh, dear—I shan't have to give evidence in a police court, I do hope.”

Superintendent Spence smiled appeasingly.

“Oh, we hope it mayn't come to that,” he said mendaciously.

“It may be suicide,” Beatrice suggested hopefully.

Superintendent Spence forbore to say that a suicide does not usually cave in the back of his skull with a pair of steel fire tongs. Instead, he replied in the same easy manner:

“Never any good jumping to conclusions. Thank you,
Miss Lippincott. Very good of you to come forward with this statement so promptly.”

When she had been ushered out, he ran over her statement in his mind. He knew all about Beatrice Lippincott, had a very good idea of how far her accuracy was to be depended upon. So much for a conversation genuinely overhead and remembered. A little extra embroidery for excitement's sake. A little extra still because murder had been done in bedroom No. 5. But take extras away and what remained was ugly and suggestive.

Superintendent Spence looked at the table in front of him. There was a wristwatch with a smashed glass, a small gold lighter with initials on it, a lipstick in a gilt holder, and a pair of heavy steel fire tongs, the heavy head of which was stained a rusty brown.

Sergeant Graves looked in and said that Mr. Rowley Cloade was waiting. Spence nodded and the Sergeant showed Rowley in.

Just as he knew all about Beatrice Lippincott, so the Superintendent knew all about Rowley Cloade. If Rowley had come to the police station, it was because Rowley had got something to say and that something would be solid, reliable and unimaginative. It would, in fact, be worth hearing. At the same time, Rowley being a deliberate type of person, it would take some time to say. And you couldn't hurry the Rowley Cloade type. If you did, they became rattled, repeated themselves, and generally took twice as long….

“Good morning, Mr. Cloade. Pleased to see you. Can you throw any light on this problem of ours? The man who was killed at the Stag.”

Rather to Spence's surprise, Rowley began with a question. He asked abruptly:

“Have you identified the fellow?”

“No,” said Spence slowly. “I wouldn't say we had. He signed the register Enoch Arden. There's nothing in his possession to show he
was
Enoch Arden.”

Rowley frowned.

“Isn't that—rather odd?”

It was exceedingly odd, but Superintendent Spence did not propose to discuss with Rowley Cloade just how odd he thought it was. Instead he said pleasantly: “Come now, Mr. Cloade, I'm the one who asks the questions. You went to see the dead man last night. Why?”

“You know Beatrice Lippincott, Superintendent? At the Stag.”

“Yes, of course. And,” said the Superintendent, taking what he hoped would be a short cut, “I've heard her story. She came to me with it.”

Rowley looked relieved.

“Good. I was afraid she mightn't want to be mixed up with a police matter. These people are funny that way sometimes.” The Superintendent nodded. “Well, then, Beatrice told me what she'd overheard and it seemed to me—I don't know if it does to you—decidedly fishy. What I mean is—we're, well, we're interested parties.”

Again the Superintendent nodded. He had taken a keen local interest in Gordon Cloade's death and in common with general local opinion he considered that Gordon's family had been badly treated. He endorsed the common opinion that Mrs. Gordon Cloade “wasn't a lady,” and that Mrs. Gordon Cloade's brother was one of those young firebrand Commandos who, though they
had had their uses in time of war, were to be looked at askance in peacetime.

“I don't suppose I need explain to you, Superintendent, that if Mrs. Gordon's first husband is still alive, it will make a big difference to us as a family. This story of Beatrice's was the first intimation I had that such a state of affairs might exist. I'd never dreamed of such a thing. Thought she was definitely a widow. And I may say it shook me up a lot. Took me a bit of time to realize it, as you might say. You know, I had to let it soak in.”

Spence nodded again. He could see Rowley slowly ruminating the matter, turning it over and over in his mind.

“First of all I thought I'd better get my uncle on to it—the lawyer one.”

“Mr. Jeremy Cloade?”

“Yes, so I went along there. Must have been some time after eight. They were still at dinner and I sat down in old Jeremy's study to wait for him, and I went on turning things over in my mind.”

“Yes?”

“And finally I came to the conclusion that I'd do a bit more myself before getting my uncle on to it. Lawyers, Superintendent, are all the same, I've found. Very slow, very cautious, and have to be absolutely sure of their facts before they'll move in a matter. The information I'd got had come to me in a rather hole-and-corner manner—and I wondered if old Jeremy might hem and haw a bit about acting on it. I decided I'd go along to the Stag and see this Johnnie for myself.”

“And you did so?”

“Yes. I went right back to the Stag—”

“At what time was this?”

Rowley pondered.

“Lemme see, I must have got to Jeremy's about twenty past eight or thereabouts—five minutes—well, I wouldn't like to say exactly, Spence—after half-past eight—perhaps about twenty to nine?”

“Yes, Mr. Cloade?”

“I knew where the bloke was—Bee had mentioned the number of his room—so I went right up and knocked at the door and he said, ‘Come in,' and I went in.”

Rowley paused.

“Somehow I don't think I handled the business very well. I thought when I went in that
I
was the one who was on top. But the fellow must have been rather a clever fellow. I couldn't pin him down to anything definite. I thought he'd be frightened when I hinted he'd been doing a spot of blackmail, but it just seemed to amuse him. He asked me—damned cheek—if
I
was in the market too? ‘You can't play your dirty game with me,' I said. ‘
I
've nothing to hide.' And he said rather nastily that that wasn't his meaning. The point was, he said, that
he'd
got something to sell and was I a buyer? ‘What do you mean?' I said. He said: ‘How much will you—or the family generally—pay me for the definite proof that Robert Underhay, reported dead in Africa, is really alive and kicking?' I asked him why the devil we should pay anything at all? And he laughed and said, ‘Because I've got a client coming this evening who certainly will pay a very substantial sum for proof positive that Robert Underhay is dead.' Then—well, then, I'm afraid I rather lost my temper and told him that my family weren't used to doing
that kind of dirty business. If Underhay was really alive, I said, the fact ought to be quite easy to establish. Upon that I was just stalking out when he laughed and said in what was really rather a queer tone, ‘I don't think you'll prove it without
my
cooperation.' Funny sort of way he said that.”

“And then?”

“Well, frankly, I went home rather disturbed. Felt, you know, that I'd messed things up. Rather wished I'd left it to old Jeremy to tackle after all. I mean, dash it all, a lawyer's used to dealing with slippery customers.”

“What time did you leave the Stag?”

“I've no idea. Wait a sec. Must have been just before nine because I heard the pips for the news as I was going along the village—through one of the windows.”

“Did Arden say who it was he was expecting? The ‘client?'”

“No. I took it for granted it was David Hunter. Who else could it be?”

“He didn't seem in any way alarmed by the prospect?”

“I tell you the fellow was thoroughly pleased with himself and on top of the world!”

Spence indicated with a slight gesture the heavy steel tongs.

“Did you notice these in the grate, Mr. Cloade?”

“Those? No—I don't think so. The fire wasn't lit.” He frowned, trying to visualize the scene. “There were fire irons in the grate, I'm sure, but I can't say I noticed what they were.” He added, “Was that what—”

Spence nodded.

“Smashed his skull in.”

Rowley frowned.

“Funny. Hunter's a lightly built chap—Arden was a big man—powerful.”

The Superintendent said in a colourless voice:

“The medical evidence is that he was struck down from behind and that the blows delivered with the head of the tongs were struck from above.”

Rowley said thoughtfully:

“Of course he was a cocksure sort of a bloke—but all the same I wouldn't have turned my back with a fellow in the room whom I was trying to bleed white and who'd done some pretty tough fighting in the war. Arden can't have been a very cautious sort of chap.”

“If he
had
been cautious very likely he'd be alive now,” said the Superintendent dryly.

“I wish to God he was,” said Rowley fervently. “As it is I feel I've mucked things up thoroughly. If only I hadn't got on my high horse and stalked off, I might have got something useful out of him. I ought to have pretended that we
were
in the market, but the thing's so damned silly. I mean, who are we to bid against Rosaleen and David? They've got the cash. None of us could raise five hundred pounds between us.”

The Superintendent picked up the gold lighter.

“Seen this before?”

A crease appeared between Rowley's brows. He said slowly:

“I've seen it somewhere, yes, but I can't remember where. Not very long ago. No—I can't remember.”

Spence did not give the lighter into Rowley's outstretched hand. He put it down and picked up the lipstick, unsheathing it from its case.

“And this?”

Rowley grinned.

“Really, that's not in my line, Superintendent.”

Thoughtfully, Spence smeared a little on the back of his hand. He put his head on one side, studying it appreciatively.

“Brunette colouring, I should say,” he remarked.

“Funny things you policemen know,” said Rowley. He got up. “And you don't—definitely do not—know
who
the dead man was?”

“Have you any idea yourself, Mr. Cloade?”

“I only wondered,” said Rowley slowly. “I mean—this fellow was our only clue to Underhay. Now that he's dead—well, looking for Underhay is going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“There'll be publicity, Mr. Cloade,” said Spence. “Remember that in due course a lot of this will appear in the press. If Underhay is alive and comes to read about it—well, he may come forward.”

“Yes,” said Rowley doubtfully. “He may.”

“But you don't think so?”

“I think,” said Rowley Cloade, “that Round One has gone to David Hunter.”

“I wonder,” said Spence. As Rowley went out, Spence picked up the gold lighter and looked at the initials D.H. on it. “Expensive bit of work,” he said to Sergeant Graves. “Not mass produced. Quite easily identified. Greatorex or one of those Bond Street places. Have it seen to!”

“Yes, sir.”

Then the Superintendent looked at the wristwatch—the glass was smashed and the hands pointed to ten minutes past nine.

He looked at the Sergeant.

“Got the report on this, Graves?”

“Yes, sir. Mainspring's broken.”

“And the mechanism of the hands?”

“Quite all right, sir.”

“What, in your opinion, Graves, does the watch tell us?”

Graves murmured warily, “Seems as though it might give us the time the crime was committed.”

“Ah,” said Spence, “when you've been as long in the Force as I have, you'll be a leetle suspicious of anything so convenient as a smashed watch. It can be genuine—but it's a well-known hoary old trick. Turn the hands of a watch to a time that suits you—smash it—and out with some virtuous alibi. But you don't catch an old bird that way. I'm keeping a very open mind on the subject of the time this crime was committed. Medical evidence is: between 8 p.m. and 11 p.m.”

Sergeant Graves cleared his throat.

“Edwards, second gardener at Furrowbank, says he saw David Hunter coming out of a side door there about 7:30. The maids didn't know he was down here. They thought he was up in London with Mrs. Gordon. Shows he was in the neighbourhood all right.”

“Yes,” said Spence. “I'll be interested to hear Hunter's own account of his doings.”

“Seems like a clear case, sir,” said Graves, looking at the initials on the lighter.

“H'm,” said the Superintendent. “There's still this to account for.”

He indicated the lipstick.

“It had rolled under the chest of drawers, sir. Might have been there some time.”

“I've checked up,” said Spence. “The last time a woman occupied that room was three weeks ago. I know service isn't up to
much nowadays—but I still think they run a mop under the furniture once in three weeks. The Stag is kept pretty clean and tidy on the whole.”

“There's been no suggestion of a woman being mixed up with Arden.”

“I know,” said the Superintendent. “That's why that lipstick is what I call the unknown quantity.”

Sergeant Graves refrained from saying “Cherchez la femme.” He had a very good French accent and he knew better than to irritate Superintendent Spence by drawing attention to it. Sergeant Graves was a tactful young man.