The Moving Toyshop (16 page)

“As you know, the plan miscarried.” Mr. Rosseter rose and strolled to the side of the desk. “But let me tell you what actually happened. And let me give you the names of the people concerned—it is ridiculous to continue with these childish pseudonyms.” He stood silhouetted blackly against the window. “In the first place there was—”

Something like a backfire sounded in the street outside. Mr. Rosseter stopped in the middle of the sentence. His eyes blurred, like lamps swept suddenly with a gust of rain, and his mouth dropped open, showing a trickle of blood in one corner. He fell forward on to his desk, and from there slipped down to the floor. Cadogan found himself staring dazedly at a neat round hole in the window-pane.

“He’s dead all right,” said Fen, who was bending over the body. “Bullet in the neck—something like an express rifle, I should think. Blackmailers do occasionally end up this way. Better him than us anyway.”

Cadogan was not even relieved at their miraculous deliverance; he interpreted this, rightly, as being due to the fact that he had never really believed he going to be killed. But Fen gave him little opportunity to meditate on these matters.

The shot entered horizontally,” he said, ‘which means it must have come from the upper windows of the house opposite. In fact, our friend will just be leaving there. Let’s go across.” He picked up his gun and took the key of the office door from Mr. Rosseter’s pocket.

“Oughtn’t we to phone the police?”

“Later. Later,” said Fen, dragging Cadogan from the room. “It’ll be a fat lot of good phoning the police if the murderer gets away.”

“But of course he’ll get away.” Cadogan tripped on a stair-rod and nearly fell. “You don’t think he’s standing over there waiting for us, do you?” But to this question he got no reply.

The lights at Carfax were holding up the traffic in one direction, so they crossed the Cornmarket without delay. They wasted some minutes, however, in searching for the entrance to the flat opposite, and when found in an alley behind the shops, it proved to be locked.

“If
this
belongs to Miss Alice Winkworth too,” said Fen, “I shall scream.” He really looked as if he might.

A constable standing on the opposite pavement was watching their antics with some curiosity, but Fen was so oblivious of this important fact that he had opened a window and was climbing in before Cadogan could stop him. The constable hastened across to them and addressed himself to Fen’s disappearing form with some indignation.

“Here! Here!” he called. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Having succeeded in getting in at the window, Fen now turned round and leaned out of it again. He spoke rather like a cleric addressing his congregation from the pulpit.

“A man has just been shot dead in the flat opposite,” he answered. “And he was shot from here. Is that sufficient season for you?”

The constable stared at Fen in much the same way as Balaam must have stared at his ass.“’Ere, are you joking?” he said.

“Certainly I am not joking,” said Fen implacably. “Go and see for yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

“Holy God,” said the constable, and hastened back across the Cornmarket

“He’s a simple fellow,” Cadogan commented. “You might be robbing this flat, for all he knows.”

“It’s empty, you fool,” Fen rejoined; and disappeared. In a very short time he was back at the window.

“There’s no one about,” he said. “But there’s a fire-escape leading down to a little green place round the corner, and the window beside it has been forced. Heaven knows where the rifle is—anyway, I haven’t time to search for it now.”

“Why not?”

Fen climbed through the window and dropped on to the pavement beside Cadogan. “Because, you old malt-worm, I don’t want to get delayed giving evidence to that constable. We should have to go down to the station, and that would mean an hour at least.”

“But look here, isn’t it about time the police took over this business altogether?”

“Yes,” said Fen frankly. “It is. And if I were a public-spirited citizen that’s what I should let them do. But I’m not a public-spirited citizen, and anyway I consider this business is our party. The police wouldn’t believe us when we put the thing to them in the first place;
we’ve
done all the investigation and
we’ve
run all the risks. I consider we’ve a perfect right to go on and finish the business in our own way. In fact, my blood’s up. There’s something romantic about me,” he added reflectively. “I’m an adventurer
manqué:
born out of my time.”

“What nonsense.”

“Well, you keep out of it if you like. Go on, run and talk to the police. They”ll put you in the can, anyway, for stealing those groceries.”

“You seem to forget that I’m ill.”

“All right,” said Fen, with elaborate unconcern. “Do what you like. It doesn’t matter to me. I can manage without you.”

“It’s ridiculous to take this attitude—”

“My dear fellow, I quite understand. Say no more about it. you’re a poet, after all, and it’s to be expected.”

“What is to be expected?” said Cadogan furiously.

“Nothing. I didn’t mean anything. Well, I must go before that policeman comes back.”

“Of course if you insist on behaving like a child of two, I shall feel compelled to go with you.”

“Oh? Will you? I dare say you’d only be a hindrance.”

“Not at all.”

“You’ve only been a hindrance so far.”

“That’s quite unjust… Look out, there’s that policeman again.”

The alley curved round behind the building and debouched at its further end in Market Street, which joined the Cornmarket more or less opposite Mr. Rosseter’s office. It was here that Fen and Cadogan cautiously emerged; the constable was for the moment out of sight.

“The Market,” said Fen tersely. And hurrying along the street, they turned in at an entrance on the right.

The Oxford Market is a large one, standing in the right angle formed by the High Street and the Cornmarket. Here they could hope to evade the attentions of the constable, should he choose to follow them, though as Fen remarked, he could scarcely do so until someone else arrived to keep an eye on Mr. Rosseter’s office. There were two main passages, lined with stalls selling meat, fruit, flowers, vegetables, and down one of these they strolled, buffeted by beetle-like housewives intent upon bargains. The air smelt delightfully of raw things and, after the sunlight outside, the great barn-like building was cool and dim.

“All I say,” Fen pursued, “is that this is our pigeon and no one else’s. It may be the glory of a law-abiding age that one doesn’t, literally, have to fight one’s own battles, but it makes life tame. As a matter of fact, we’re perfectly within our rights. We’ve detected a felony and are searching for the criminal, and if the police choose to get in the way it’s their bad luck.” He tired abruptly of these sophistries. “Not that I care a twopenny damn whether I’m within my rights or not. Here’s a
café
. Let’s go in and get some tea.”

The
café
was small and primitive, but clean. Cadogan drank his tea avidly and began to take a proper interest in things again. Fen meanwhile had departed to find a telephone and was talking to Mr. Hoskins in his own room.

“Mr. Spode left,” Mr. Hoskins was saying, “shortly after Cadogan and yourself—I don’t know where he was going, but he seemed a trifle uncomfortable, in the social sense, I mean. Sally and Dr. Wilkes are still here.”

“Good. you’ll be pleased to know that Rosseter has just been bumped off under our very noses. But he said he didn’t kill Miss Tardy.”

“Good Lord.” Mr. Hoskins was manifestly startled at this information. “Was he telling the truth, do you suppose?”

“I should think so. He was proposing to kill us at the end of it, so he hadn’t much reason for lying. Someone shot him with a rifle from the flat opposite—someone he was bl—Oh, my fur and whiskers.”

“Are you all right?” Mr. Hoskins asked.

“Physically, but not in the head. I’ve just realized something, and it’s too late now. Never mind, you shall hear all about it later. In the meantime, I wonder if you can possibly discover the identity of a suspect for me—Berlin? He’s a doctor, and uncommonly thin. It sounds easy, but in practice it may be rather awkward.”

“I’ll see what I can do. But I shall have to leave Sally. She says she ought to have gone back to the shop hours ago.”

“She
must stay in my room.
Wilkes will look after her. It’s a pity he’s so hale and susceptible in his dotage, but that’s a risk she”ll have to take.”

“Are you coming back now? Where can I get hold of you if I find the man?”

“I shall be at the ‘Mace and Sceptre’ about a quarter past six. Ring me there.” Fen lowered his voice and began to give instructions.

When he returned to the table Cadogan had finished the buttered scones and was eating a piece of angel-cake. “The Episode of the Guzzling Bard,” said Fen as he lit a cigarette. “You may kick me if you like… No,” he went on crossly. “don’t fool about, it’s only a figure of speech. I suppose senescence is clouding my brain.”

“What’s up?” said Cadogan with his mouth full.

“It’s surely not necessary for you to take such big bites at a time… It’s a question of where our homicidal friend went after he left the flat.”

“Well, where did he go?”

“Obviously to Rosseter’s office. Don’t you remember the information which would hang him was in Rosseter’s briefcase? There was no point in killing him unless the murderer got that. And I was so childishly excited that I left it there.”

“Lor’,” said Cadogan, impressed. “And we might have cleared the whole business up there and then.”

“Yes. Anyway it’s too late now. Either the murderer’s got it, or the police. A subsidiary point which interests me is how the murderer took his rifle away. I think it was only a small one—might even have been a ’22—but he’d have to have had something innocent-looking, like a golf-bag, to carry it away in.” Fen sighed profoundly.

“What do we do now?”

“I think we seek out Miss Alice Winkworth.”

A woman sitting at a nearby table got up and came over to them. “You mentioned my name?” she said.

Cadogan jumped, and even Fen lost hold momentarily on his equanimity. The interruption went beyond logic; and yet, when all things were considered, there was no great reason why Miss Alice Winkworth should not be eating tea in the same
café
as themselves. To them it appeared odd; to her, no doubt, it appeared odd also; but an outsider would have been wholly unmoved by the coincidence.

She gazed down on them with manifest disapprobation. Her face was fat, yellow-complexioned, and moonlike, with a rudimentary black moustache, a pudgy nose, and small, suilline eyes—the face of a woman accustomed to exercising an egotistical authority. It was surmounted by greying hair coiled into buns over the ears, and a black hat sewn with a multitude of tiny red and purple beads. On the fourth finger of her right hand was an ostentatious diamond ring, and she wore an expensive but ill-fitting black coat and skirt.

“You were talking about me?” she repeated.

“Sit down,” said Fen amiably, “and let us have a chat.”

“I have no intention of sitting with you,” Miss Winkworth replied. “You, I suppose, are Mr. Cadogan and Mr. Fen. I hear from my employees that you have pestered them with questions about me, and that you, Mr. Cadogan, took it upon yourself to steal part of my property. Now that I have found you, I shall go straight to the police and inform them that you are here.”

Fen stood up. “Sit down,” he said again, and his tone was no longer amiable.

“How dare you threaten—”

“As you well know, a woman was murdered last night. We need some information which you can give us.”

“What nonsense: I deny—”

“She was murdered on your property and with your connivance,” Fen went on remorselessly, “and you benefit from her death.”

“You can prove nothing—”

“On the contrary I can prove a great deal. Rosseter has talked. He is also—as perhaps you know—dead. you’re in a very unfortunate position indeed. You’d do better to tell us what you know.”

“I shall see my lawyer. How dare you insult me in this way? I’ll have the pair of you in gaol for libel.”

“Let’s have no more of this foolery,” said Fen abruptly. “Go to the police if you like. You’ll be immediately arrested for conspiracy to murder, if not for the murder itself.”

Hesitation and fear were in the woman’s greedy little eyes.

“Whereas,” Fen continued, “if you tell us what you know it may be possible to keep you out of it altogether. I say it
may
:
I don’t know. Now, will you take your choice?”

Suddenly, heavily, Miss Winkworth slumped down into a chair, pulling out a lavender-scented lace handkerchief with which she wiped the perspiration from her hands. “I didn’t kill her,” she said in a low voice. “I didn’t kill her. We never meant to kill her.” She looked round suddenly. “We can’t talk here.”

“I see no reason why not,” said Fen. And indeed, the
café
was almost empty. A single waitress leaned against a pillar by the door, her pale face vacant, a dish-cloth in her hand. The proprietor tampered inexpertly with his shining tea-urn.

“Now,” said Fen curtly. “Answer my questions.”

They had great difficulty in getting any connected story out of Miss Winkworth, but eventually the general outlines emerged with sufficient clarity. She confirmed Mr. Rosseter’s account of the intimidation plan, adding to it some unimportant detail; but asked if she knew the identities of the other two men involved, she shook her head.

“They were masked,” she said. “I was, too. We used the names the old woman gave us.”

“How did you come to meet Miss Snaith in the first place?”

“I’m a medium. A psychic medium. I have Powers. The old woman wanted to get in touch with the Beyond; she was afraid of dying.” A trace of slyness crept into the eyes and the corners of the mouth. “Of course, you can’t always get in touch when you want to, so I sometimes had to arrange things so that she wouldn’t be disappointed. Very comforting messages we got then—just the sort of thing she liked.”