“Fired from above and to the left,” said Thorne, his thin nose twitching.
“Just so. By the chap on the porch. Now then. We have an eye-witness to the shooting. Princess Popescu’s cabby—”
“Cabby?” broke in the Detective-Inspector. “Do you mean—?”
“I mean cabby.” Nailsworth’s quiet, impersonal voice took on a slight edge. “We have a few horse-cabs here still. Visitors seem to like them. And the Princess regularly uses one: she’s old-fashioned. This particular cabby, Charles Poore, is about as old as his vehicle. And as slow. Which doesn’t help. Anyway, he’d gone to Queen’s Parade to drive the Princess and her companion out to dinner. He drew up outside the house and waited a few minutes. Then he noticed a movement on the porch over the front door—saw a man’s head and shoulders.”
“Can I just get these times right?” said Thorne. “You say the first telephone call came in here at 7.32. But, according to your local newspaper, the man was first noticed ‘about 7.25.’ Why the delay ringing you up? Or was the paper wrong?”
Chief-Inspector Nailsworth nodded approvingly: this Scotland Yard chap seemed up to his work.
“No. There was a delay. The cabby looked at his watch when he arrived. It was a little after 7.20. Saw this bloke a few minutes later—he must have been up on the porch already, before the cab got there. The Princess was dressing in her bedroom—the window’s directly above the porch—with the curtains closed and the light on. The burglar was presumably waiting for her to go out of the room.”
“And what was the cabby waiting for?”
“Charles Poore did not give the alarm at once. He says, because he thought the chap might be a workman, or a guest—the porch top is a sort of balcony, with a low wall. Actually, of course, the old fool was scared the Princess might ask him to do something about it. Anyway, she and Mrs. Felstead came out presently, and the cabby drove off with them. About a hundred yards down the road, he got an attack of conscience or something—stopped the cab and told the ladies about the man he had seen. The Princess ordered him to go back. She’s a queer old guy—what’s the word—?”
“Flamboyant,” suggested the Chief Constable.
“That’s it, sir. But she’s got nerve. Walked straight in, and her friend telephoned the police.”
“Any maids kept?” asked Thorne.
“A cook general. Italian girl. Her mistress had given her the evening out, though. Poore turned his cab round again, to be facing the way the ladies wanted to go—that’s away from the sea-front, north.” Nailsworth tapped a large finger on the sketch-map which lay in front of Thorne. “It was the Princess’s idea—to make it look as if she’d just turned back for something she’d forgotten, and not frighten off the burglar. He saw Herbert come along on his bicycle, saw him go in at the front gate—there’s a tablecloth of garden between the house and the pavement. He couldn’t see the chap on the porch just then. But he heard Herbert call out, ‘Come down, old man!’”
Nailsworth paused to get control over his voice. His mouth quivered, then set into a line so thin that it almost disappeared. Inspector Thorne tactfully looked down at the sketch-map.
“He didn’t give him a chance,” Nailsworth began again, in a tight, violent tone. “That b—fired as soon as the words were out of Herbert’s mouth. And if ever I lay my hands on him, God help him, that’s all I say!”
“Let’s stick to the facts, my dear chap, shall we?” said the Chief Constable gently.
“Sorry, sir.” Nailsworth’s face was wooden again, but his hand on the table still clenched and unclenched. “The cabby saw this chap’s head and shoulders appear above the low parapet of the porch—as if he was trying to sit up, Poore said. Then there was a flash, a report, and Poore’s horse started to bolt. He heard another report. He managed to stop the horse a few hundred yards up the road: but by the time he’d got back to the house, the murderer was away, towards the sea-front, the opposite direction from what the horse had bolted in. We have a witness, though, who saw a man running down the road towards the front. This witness says he was a smallish man—five-foot-six or seven was his guess. And she and the cabby both agree that he was wearing some dark-coloured suit.”
“That the best they can do, between them?”
“It was getting dark, remember. And Poore’s sight isn’t up to much, anyway. He might be able to identify him: or he might not. The other witness only saw his back.”
“What about the Princess?”
“She was looking out of a front window, at the left of the porch. She heard the first shot. Then Herbert, who’d been standing to the right of it, came into her view.” Nailsworth’s voice went utterly colourless: he fumbled for the typewritten sheets before him, and as if he could not trust himself to use his own words, read out a few lines. “‘The Inspector staggered away from the door. He was bent double, clutching himself and gasping. Then I heard another bang. The Inspector gave a shudder. He was reeling through the front gate, and he collapsed on the pavement. I could not look any more. I was hiding my eyes for a little time. Then I went to telephone again for help.’”
“Hiding her eyes when this bird jumped down off the porch, I suppose?” said Thorne sourly. “We don’t seem to be in luck.”
“Herbert wasn’t in luck either.” Nailsworth’s upper lip curled back from his teeth, and he looked at Thorne as though he hated him.
Colonel Allison interposed: “Afraid we haven’t got much to show you, Thorne. No fingerprints on the porch or bedroom window. We took casts of some footprints in the mould of the front garden, but they’re probably Stone’s. There’s the cap, of course. Poore thought the fellow was wearing a cap: and we found one just inside the garden of a house, seven doors up the road, the way he ran. It’s a pretty new cap. Name of a Brighton shop in it. Nailsworth sent a man there this morning, and he’s telephoned the shopkeeper’s information: the cap was one of a consignment that only came in a month ago: so far he’s only sold four of them: he might be able to identify the purchaser.”
Inspector Thorne scratched the end of his long nose. “This bird seems to have been in a hell of a panic,” he said ruminatively. “You say there were no signs of his trying to break in?”
“No, but he was obviously waiting till—”
“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s not my point. At that stage he could only have been charged with intent: yet he shoots to kill, twice, rather than be arrested on a minor charge. That’s amateurish, panicky. Then he throws away his cap—”
“It could have blown off as he ran.”
“I grant you that, sir. Yes, I dare say jumping down from that porch would have loosened it.” Thorne studied the plan before him. “The porch is ten-foot high, I see, and no side-supports. He must be quite a climber. And no rope was found? That may give us a line.” The inspector scratched his nose again. “How did he know the house would be empty that night?”
“I talked to the maid,” said Nailsworth. “She swears that no strangers came round inquiring—anyway, the Princess tells me she only decided two days before to go out for dinner.”
Thorne’s peaky face looked sharper than ever. “There you are again! It’s amateur work. A professional would have cased the house beforehand: he’d not climb up and lie over the porch, with the bedroom light on behind the curtains, on the off-chance that the occupants were all going to be out presently. It doesn’t make sense.”
“What’s in your mind, Inspector?” said Allison.
“Could there be a political angle? This Princess now—what do we know about her?”
“She’s Roumanian. An expatriate. Escaped over here when the revolution broke out. Eccentric old girl, but quite harmless. Why?”
“There’s a lot of cloak-and-dagger stuff going on nowadays, as you know, sir. This attempt at burglary wouldn’t look so amateurish if it was an attempt at assassination, or to steal political papers, say. Foreigners get panicky—they’re quicker on the trigger than us.”
“Then why didn
’t he shoot the Princess the first time she went out of the house?” Inspector Nailsworth sat back in his chair, with the air of one who had made a crushing move at chess. Thorne was apparently undiscouraged.
“What’s she got worth stealing, then?” he asked.
“Family jewels. They’re what she lives on. In a tuppenny-farthing safe in her bedroom. She won’t keep them at the bank, she says—you know what old ladies are like. Makes you weep, doesn’t it?”
The two inspectors threw up their eyes to the ceiling, in sympathy at last over the folly of those who asked for trouble.
“Was it generally known in Southbourne, about these jewels?”
“Oh yes, the Princess is quite a celebrity here.”
“More likely a local job then.”
“We have thousands of visitors every summer. There’s nothing to stop one of the wrong sort getting to hear about the Princess’s little hoard.” Inspector Nailsworth was frosty again: he had the provincial’s touchiness about the good name of his own town. “Of course, we’ve got some bad lads here. But not the shooting kind—I’ll take my oath on that.”
“He must be a Londoner then,” said Thorne dryly. “Well, we’ve got to find the weapon. The usual caper. A bird in that sort of panic is bound to get rid of it double quick. He was running towards the sea-front—”
“Yes. He could drop it off the pier, or the harbour wall,” said Nailsworth with ponderous sarcasm. “Or he could board the night steamer and toss it into the sea. Quite a job, dragging the English Channel.”
“We’re making inquiries, of course,” said Allison, “in that direction. But—yes, what is it?”
A constable had come in, and was standing to attention by the door. There was a man outside, he said, whom he thought the Chief Inspector should see at once: it might have a bearing on the murder. This man proved to be one of the municipal cleaners, whose job it was to clear up litter from the beach. Early this morning he had found a parcel just under the sea wall, a few hundred yards from the Queen’s Hotel. He had taken it, after finishing the rest of his work, with several other articles, to the municipal offices. There it had been opened; and in due course someone had put two and two together.
Nailsworth opened the parcel, whistling through his teeth when he saw what it contained—a length of rope with a hook at one end.
“You’re certain this wasn’t on the beach yesterday morning?”
“Quite certain, Inspector. I couldn’t have missed it—not a parcel that size.”
“Well, he’s done everything except write his name and address on the wrapping for us,” said Nailsworth, when the cleaner had been temporarily dismissed, and his find removed for finger-printing.
Thorne looked dubious. “Well, he may have left his dabs on the hook. But it’s crazy to me. The hook’s too small to grip the parapet of a balcony, for one thing. And even if he did use it on the house, he made off much too quick to have had time for unfastening it. And why leave it, neatly parcelled up, where it was certain to be found?”
“You think he wanted it to be found?” asked the Chief Constable keenly.
“Well, sir, if it isn’t just a coincidence. And I can’t swallow that.”
“You mean it’s a blind? He wanted to fix our attention on burglary, when he was really up to something else?”
Chief Inspector Nailsworth gave a loud snuffle. “My youngest kid’s a great reader of crime fiction,” he remarked at large.
Thorne’s mouth twitched. “In my experience, crime fact is a good deal stranger than crime fiction these days.” He turned to Colonel Allison. “Well, sir, if there’s nothing more you want to discuss, I’d better get down to the field work.”
“What do you propose?” The Colonel was not accustomed to being dismissed, however tactfully, by junior officers. But he had worked for Military Intelligence during the war, and recognised brains when he met them.
“I’d like to see the spot where this rope was found, sir: then the scene of the crime. One can’t quite get the hang of these things from maps and sketches. After that, I’ll interview the Princess’s household, the cabby, and the other witness—though I don’t expect I’ll turn up anything the Chief Inspector hasn’t discovered. What we need is some more material evidence. You can’t make a brick with only three straws—and one of them a broken reed.”
“The shopkeeper in Brighton may be able to give descriptions of the men who bought that kind of cap.”
“Let’s hope so. But it’s a rare thing, the gift for describing. Most people can’t even see, let alone put it into words. Queen’s Parade. It sounds like one of those high-class neighbourhoods where everyone’s far too superior to peer out between the curtains.”
Rather unexpectedly, the Chief Inspector was tickled by this sardonic remark of Thorne’s. “You’re right there, my lad.”
On this note of unanimity, the Chief Constable took his leave. Maybe the other two would stop getting across each other now: there always tended to be this initial froideur between the local man and the Scotland Yard expert; and besides, Nailsworth was badly cut up by Stone’s death.
When Colonel Allison had gone, there was an uneasy silence for a few moments.
“A good man, the Colonel,” ventured Thorne.
“One of the best.” Nailsworth turned away towards the window. “So was Herbert.”
Thorne moved to his side, a sparrowy figure compared with the huge bulk of the Chief Inspector.
“No use fretting, sir,” he said: then, in a chilled, bitter voice, “I know what it’s like. It was one of my chaps who had it in that Craig-Bentley business. Don’t you worry. We’ll get him.”
13. “I Only want to Help”
Daisy lay on the bed, her body hot and dry, exhausted with weeping. The child kicked in her womb, but she was beyond feeling it: she herself was imprisoned in a horror from which there seemed to be no way out. It was two days since Jacko had brought her back to his house, and the oppression of her misery showed no sign of lifting. Her mind kept turning and turning within the narrow orbit of disaster, trying every way to reach back to the girl she had been before Hugo left her on that seat on the promenade. But it was as if a fog had closed down between her and the happy past—a fog in which she was utterly lost, and which made trivial things loom large out of all proportion. Hugo’s dressing-gown, for instance: she had wanted to keep it—to have something of his she could put round her. But, in the bustle of departure, the agony of saying good-bye to him, it had been forgotten. Hugo and his brother had gone off by an earlier train that afternoon, and he had packed the dressing-gown in his own bag; and now it seemed like an extra, wanton cruelty—not to have even this to remember him by.
Daisy shut her eyes, trying to summon up Hugo’s face. But it evaded her, she could not fix it: it started to form in her mind’s eye, then turned into something monstrous—a figment of the fog which choked and mocked her.
“Not asleep yet, my dear? This won’t do.”
She had not heard the door open. Jacko came over and sat on her bed.
“Is it very late?” she muttered.
“Nearly midnight. I think I’d better give you another sedative.”
“No. I don’t want—” She gripped his hand convulsively. “You won’t leave me? I haven’t anyone else.”
Jacko made soothing noises. The girl was staring at his face, with a wild, unfocused look.
“Haven’t you heard from him yet? Is he all right?”
“No news is good news, my dear. You must try not to excite yourself.”
“He might have written to me,” she said in a quavering voice.
“He will. But it wouldn’t be wise just at present. You do see that, don’t you?”
“I suppose so.” The girl lay back, closing her eyes. Jacko began to stroke her temples rhythmically: it was comforting. After a while she said:
“Do you think I’m very wicked?”
“Wicked? What is all this?”
“Well, I’m being
punished, aren’t I?”
“Not for anything you’ve done.” Some faint insinuation in his tone made Daisy start upright: her night-dress slipped from one shoulder, revealing a blue-veined breast.
“Hugo isn’t wicked!” she cried. “You shan’t say that! I know he—stole things. But he was going to give all that up. He told me. He’s kind, and good. If he hadn’t lost that £50 betting—and he only did that for me. You don’t think he—”
“Look at me, Daisy.” Jacko’s voice had never been so gentle. She gazed at the ugly, pouchy face, deep into the brown eyes which never quite lost their imploring look. The faithful dog. The one friend she could trust.
“You know I only want to help you—you and Hugo. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you tell me all about it, then? It’s not good for you, keeping it bottled up. I’m saying this as your doctor. You’re heading for a nervous breakdown, and that won’t do the baby any good, or Hugo. Things go bad when they’re bottled up inside you.”
“Not now,” she sighed. “I’m so tired.”
“Tired? It’s not that. You’re afraid, my dear.”
Her body jerked, as if he had struck her. She gave him a startled, wary glance. “Of course I’m afraid. Hugo’s in danger.”
“I don’t quite mean that. Be honest with yourself. You’re afraid he really did it.”
Daisy’s first impulse was to get out of the room, get away from him. She scrambled to her knees, sobbing a little, but he bore her back and held her down by the shoulders, his thumbs kneading the plump flesh. Her head on the pillow rolled from side to side, as if to evade his eyes. He held her thus till she had grown calmer, then moved to the chair at her bedside. He was breathing hard. At last he said: