The Chief Inspector whistled.
“His neck—eh? What had he been up to—murder?”
Pearson shook his head.
“Worse, if you’ll excuse my saying so. Because there’s murders you can understand how a man came to do them. I wouldn’t like you to think I was excusing them, but you can see how they got there. But meeting enemy agents on the sly when you were supposed to be out with a concert party entertaining the troops, and giving things away that might mean hundreds of lives—well, that’s the sort of thing that nobody can understand except those that have demeaned themselves to do it.” A dull flush coloured his cheekbones as he spoke. “I’d a boy out there myself in ’forty-five, and I’ve got my feelings.”
Lamb said, “That’s all right. What did you hear?”
“Well, it was a bit here and a bit there. Seems there’s a man called Tauscher that Mr. Porlock got his information from, and according to Mr. P. this is what it amounted to. Tauscher says he had a brother who was a Nazi agent. When this brother died—he got bumped off towards the end of the war—this Tauscher opened up a box of papers his brother had left with him. That’s Mr. Porlock’s story, if you understand, and I’m not saying how much of it’s true. All I say is, he put it to Mr. Carroll that Tauscher had left notes of their meetings which incriminated him up to the hilt, and what did he propose to do about it? Mr. Carroll, he uses most awful language and says it’s all a lie, and Mr. Porlock laughs and says of course he knows his own business best, and if that’s the way he feels, then it don’t matter about Tauscher going ahead and turning his brother’s papers over to our people out there—it being his idea to show what a good German he is by doing so. I thought Mr. Carroll was going to have a fit—I really did, sir. And anything like the language—well, you know what you come across in the way of business, but I give you my word it was enough to curl your hair. Mr. Porlock, he just laughed very pleasantly and said, ‘We won’t say another word about it, my dear fellow.’ And Mr. Carroll says, fit to kill, ‘How much do you want, damn you?’ ”
Sergeant Abbott, having written this down, looked across at his Chief and observed,
“Quite a party—”
He received no reply. Lamb’s frown had become ferocious. His eyes, which that irreverent young man was in the habit of comparing to bullseyes, were definitely bulging. He said on a deep growling note,
“Is that the lot?”
Pearson sustained both growl and frown with an air of conscious virtue just perceptibly tinged with regret.
“In the matter of Mr. Masterman, I was quite unable to hear as much as I should have wished.”
“Masterman?” Lamb’s voice threatened to rise. His colour had deepened to a rich plum.
“Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Porlock took him off into the study before tea, and what with having my duties and other guests arriving, the hall was really not available as, if I may put it that way, an observation post. I was thrown back upon the dining-room, where the conditions for listening are not at all what I should describe as satisfactory. The parlourmaid came in once or twice about the silver, and altogether the only things I can swear to are that there was a quarrel going on, that Mr. Masterman used the word blackmail, and that there was some mention of a missing will. But I happened to be in the hall when Mr. Masterman came out of the study, and the way he looked—well, what it reminded me of was a Channel crossing on a rough day. The wife and I used to be very partial to one of those day trips to Boulogne before the war. Very good sailors, both of us, but you know how it is with a choppy sea—the way most people look. Well, I couldn’t compare Mr. Masterman with nothing else.”
“Look here, Pearson, you’re not making this up?”
“Me, sir?”
“Because you’d better be careful. You’re not on what I should call very firm ground, you know. Let’s see—you say in your statement to Inspector Hughes that you were in the servants’ hall having supper at the time of the murder—” He picked up a paper from the table in front of him and read: “ ‘I had fetched out the coffee-tray from the drawing-room about a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes earlier. I did not go through to the front of the house again till the bell rang. During this time I was in the company of the cook, the parlourmaid, and the head-housemaid.’ Anything to add to that?”
“No, sir.”
“Sure you didn’t go through to the hall between taking out the coffee tray and answering the bell after the murder had happened?”
“Quite sure.” Mr. Pearson’s tone was one of reasonable protest. “The Blake Agency gives good service, sir. The clients’ interests are our study, but it wouldn’t run to murder—now really, sir!”
Lamb said grimly, “I suppose it wouldn’t.”
Some time later, Pearson having departed with instructions to ask Mr. Justin Leigh if he would come and speak to the Chief Inspector, Sergeant Abbott said, “Plenty of suspects, sir.”
If he had thought this the moment to provoke a reprimand, he might have added, “Embarras de richesse.” Quotations from foreign languages being so many red rags to the official bull, he judged it better to abstain. There would, for one thing, hardly be time for the Chief to do himself justice on the kindling theme of Police College pups and wind in the head engendered by over-education. Frank Abbott knew most of it by heart, and would have been sorry if the salt had lost its savour. As it was, he got a grunt and a “Just about beats the band!”
Taking this as encouragement, Frank proceeded.
“If Pearson is to be believed—it all seems to turn on that, doesn’t it?”
Lamb grunted.
“There’s nothing against Pearson. He’d a good character in the force. Had a bad accident and was invalided out. He got better after a year or two and went to Blake’s. It’s a respectable agency.”
Frank balanced his pencil thoughtfully.
“If Porlock was a blackmailer, almost anyone may have bumped him off. Seems a pity anyone should be hanged for it.”
“Now,” said Lamb, “none of that! The law’s the law, and duty’s duty. Murder’s no way to set things right. Don’t you let me hear you talk like that! There’s no reason why Pearson shouldn’t be telling the truth, and I expect he is. He hasn’t got any axe to grind that I can see. So if we take what he says, Porlock was blackmailing Tote and Carroll for certain, and both of them for pretty serious offences. Masterman and Miss Lane are only probables. There may be others. We’ll see if Mr. Leigh can tell us anything. By what Pearson says, he was giving the orders after it happened. The man who keeps his head is the man who is likely to have noticed things. It’s no good saying I wish we could have been here before they moved everything. The locals have done a pretty good job with photographs and all, but it’s a handicap all the same. Photographs and fingerprints are all very well, but they don’t give you the feel of a place and the people. We come into it a matter of eighteen hours after it’s happened and everyone’s had time to tighten up and think what they’re going to say. If you can get there before they’ve got their balance you’re going to get something a good deal nearer the truth—especially from the women. And I don’t mean that just for the guilty parties. It’s astonishing what a lot of people have got something they’d like to hide or dress up a bit different for the police. Why, I remember thirty years ago there was a woman carried on as guilty as you please, telling lies as quick as shelling peas, and all it came to in the end—she wore a wig and she didn’t want her husband to find out. Well, here’s Mr. Leigh.”
He introduced himself and Frank with solid dignity.
“Detective Inspector Lamb of Scotland Yard, and Sergeant Abbott. Sit down, Mr. Leigh. I hope you will be able to help us. I’ve got your statement here, and I’d like to ask you a few questions. Now, how well did you know Mr. Porlock?”
Justin had been thinking that these two were interesting examples of the old-style policeman and the new. Lamb the product of village school, secondary education, and the wide, unsurpassable university of experience. Solid as English earth and English beef, that’s what he looked. The countryman’s burr on his tongue, the countryman’s balanced shrewdness in his eye. Just so the bargaining farmer balancing prices against pigs and heifers. These were larger matters, but the shrewdness and the competence were the same. Abbott might be any young man in his own club—public school—Police College—clothes that looked as if they came from Savile Row—noticeably well-kept hands. He wondered if he would ever fill the old man’s boots. He didn’t look as if he would, but you never could tell. The impression passed in a flash. He said,
“I didn’t know Mr. Porlock at all. I never met him until yesterday when I arrived here with Miss Lane in time for tea.”
Lamb nodded.
“Miss Lane brought you—then you know her?”
“I know her very well. Perhaps I’d better explain. Mrs. Oakley’s secretary, Dorinda Brown, is my cousin. She has only just gone to the job, and as she is quite young and I’m her only relation, I thought I would like to meet the Oakleys. I was trying to find out something about them, and to meet someone who knew them. Porlock’s name was mentioned as being a near neighbour of theirs in the country, and very friendly with Martin Oakley.”
“Who mentioned it?”
“It was Miss Lane. So when she said she was coming down here for the week-end and she could easily ring up and suggest bringing me, I rather jumped at it.”
“Miss Lane knew Mr. Porlock well?”
“I don’t know how well she knew him. They seemed to be on very friendly terms. She told me he loved entertaining and practically kept open house. He was certainly a most genial host.”
“How did he strike you, Mr. Leigh?”
Justin considered.
“Well, he was what I’ve just said, a genial host. A lot of social charm—all that sort of thing. And enjoying himself. That’s what struck me more than anything else. It was an ill-assorted, uphill party, and it must have been hard work, but I’d swear he was enjoying himself.”
Lamb focussed the stare upon him.
“Just what do you mean by ill-assorted, Mr. Leigh?”
Justin’s charming smile appeared.
“You won’t ask me that after you’ve met them.”
Lamb grunted and let it go.
“Anyone appear to be out of sorts—nervous—out of temper?”
“Well, of course I don’t know what Mr. Tote’s like as a rule, but I suppose you could say he was put out.” He laughed a little. “That’s putting it mildly. He didn’t talk, he didn’t join in any of the games. He looked as if he was in a foul temper, and just sat.”
“Eat his dinner?”
Justin couldn’t help laughing.
“Everything he could get hold of. Porlock has a marvellous cook.”
“Anyone else seem put out?”
“Well, as I said, I don’t know these people. Masterman may go about looking like a death’s head all the time—he was certainly spreading gloom last night. The sister looks as if she hadn’t smiled for years.”
“Mr. Leigh, I’d like to ask you something, but of course you don’t need to answer if you don’t care to. It’s not anything personal. I’d just like to know how Mr. Gregory Porlock struck you. You said he had a lot of what you’d call charm. What I’d like to know is just this—would you have said he was straight?”
Well—would he? He wondered what he would have thought if he hadn’t known what he did. Very difficult to divest yourself of knowledge and decide what your mental processes would have been without it. Once Dorinda had said “He’s the Wicked Uncle,” he couldn’t go back and judge the man as Gregory Porlock. And was he going to tell the Chief Inspector about the Wicked Uncle? He thought not. Dorinda would almost certainly do so—the art of practising a concealment was one to which she would never attain. There was something reposeful in the thought. He decided that she might be left to deal with the Wicked Uncle in her own ingenuous manner. Meanwhile there was no reason why he shouldn’t say what he thought. With no more than what seemed quite an ordinary pause for consideration he replied,
“No, I don’t think I would.”
After a moment or two, during which he appeared to be digesting this answer, Lamb returned to the charge.
“I’d like to ask you something in confidence. These people who were here last night—they were all strangers to you except Miss Lane?”
Justin nodded. “And my cousin, Dorinda Brown.” He wondered what was coming.
“They say lookers-on see most of the game. You’ll understand this isn’t to be talked of, but what I’d like to know is this— would it surprise you to hear that some of these people were being blackmailed?”
“By Porlock?”
“You’ve got it.”
“Well then—no.”
Lamb leaned forward.
“Which would you pick on, Mr. Leigh, if you had to make a guess?”
Justin frowned.
“I don’t think I care about guessing in a murder case.”
Lamb gave a slow, ponderous nod.
“I’ll put it another way. We have evidence that two of the party were being blackmailed. You’ve mentioned two of the party being out of sorts—Mr. Tote and Mr. Masterman. What about the others? Any sign of relations being strained?—with Mr. Porlock I mean. What about Mr. Carroll?”
Justin said, “Carroll is an actor.” The words were no sooner out than he regretted them. He said quickly, “I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t like the fellow, but there was nothing to make me say what I did.”
Another of those slow nods.
“That’s all right, Mr. Leigh.”
The questions went on. Everything that had been said or done came under the microscope. Presently it was,
“Did you happen to notice that Miss Lane was wearing a bracelet—could you describe it?”
He could, and did.
“A kind of diamond trellis—panels set with rubies.”
“Valuable?”
“Extremely, I should think.”
“Ever seen it before?”
“No. As a matter of fact, Miss Lane came into the drawing-room before dinner and showed it to us. She said it had been lost, and Porlock had got it back for her. She seemed very grateful.”
“Will you tell me as nearly as possible what was said?”
When he had done so the questions began again. The evening was gone through down to the time of the murder.
“I’d like you to come out into the hall and show me just where you were and what you did.”
Justin had the feeling that he would presently be doing it in his sleep. Abbott timing him, he did just what he had done the night before in the dark, finishing up at the front door with his hand on the light switch.
“And then?” This was Lamb, solid and observant, from the hearth.
“I came down to where Porlock was lying. You’ve got all that in my statement.”
Lamb gave an affirmative grunt.
“And then you rang the bell and told Pearson to send for the police. Now we’ll go back to the study.”
When they had got there he had another question.
“You knelt down by the body?”
“Yes. I felt for his pulse to see if he was dead.”
“He was lying on his face with the handle of the dagger sticking out between his shoulder blades?”
“Yes.”
“Notice anything else—anything peculiar?”
“There was a white patch all round the dagger.”
“Know what it was?”
“I thought it was luminous paint—they’d been using it in the charade.”
“Did you think it could have come there by accident?”
“Not possibly.”
“How did you think it had come there?”
“I thought the murderer had marked him with the paint so as to be sure of getting the right spot in the dark.”
“Now, Mr. Leigh—two questions. Who knew that there was luminous paint in the house, and how soon did they know it?”
“I can’t answer that. It was certainly mentioned at dinner.”
“Will you tell me just what was said?”
Justin told him. Lamb went on.
“Then there were two lots of the stuff. The Oakleys had some to paint a clock, and Porlock had some to paint the beam in the cloakroom—the pot being in the cupboard there, where anyone could have got at it.”
“There was plenty of the stuff about. Carroll had it all over his hands for the charade, and a luminous mask and horns. Miss Lane was dressed up as a nun with a couple of towels and a sheet. Carroll jumped down on her from that table against the stairs. She must have been fairly daubed with the paint. As soon as the lights went on she got out of the stuff she was wearing and threw it on the table. Carroll left his mask there. Anyone could have picked up enough paint to put that mark on Porlock’s back. We were all standing fairly close together round the hearth after the charade was over. Anyone could have done it.”
“And no one noticed it, Mr. Leigh. At least no one admits to having noticed it. Anyone could have done it, and anyone could have taken the dagger, but nobody seems to have noticed that it was missing. I don’t mean to say that there’s anything peculiar about that in a strange house. That’s what strikes me— that it was a strange house. They all say that in their statements except Miss Lane. She was the only one who had ever been here before, and she couldn’t have known about the luminous paint till the middle of dinner. Yet the crime was very carefully planned. The person who planned it was bold, ingenious, quickwitted. He used what was to hand—the dagger, the luminous paint, the charade. It was Miss Lane who proposed the charade, I think?”
“That was really quite an unwarrantable suggestion.” Justin had stiffened a little. He said quietly, “Of all the guests Miss Lane was on the best terms with Porlock.”
Lamb’s face was stolid.
“I’m not making suggestions, Mr. Leigh, I’m stating facts. That’s what I’m here for—to collect facts. Now here’s a matter of fact about which you can help us. I want to know just where everybody was when you turned on the light. You’d have a good view of them all, looking down the hall like that. Could you make me a rough sketch, do you think?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact I’ve made one.”
He produced a sheet of paper and pushed it over the table.
Frank Abbott got up and came round to look over Lamb’s shoulder. The two of them studied the plan for some time. At last Lamb said,
“The two women were nearest to him, one on either side. Miss Lane between you and the body. Mrs. Oakley on the far side. Was Mrs. Oakley facing you?”
“Yes. She was facing towards the body.”
“How far off?”
Justin hesitated. “Five or six feet.”
“And Miss Lane?”
“About the same distance. She had her back to me.”
“But you could see Mrs. Oakley’s face. How did she look?”
“Shocked—horrified.”
“And then she went down on her knees by the body, calling him Glen, and saying that someone had killed him?”
“Yes.”