Читать книгу The Lake District Murder - Ernest Elmore - Страница 4

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When Luke Perryman, rather grey and shaken by his experience, had clattered off in the Ford, Meredith heaved a sigh of relief. He could now turn his full attention to the matter in hand. As it was already past eleven o’clock he did not feel justified in notifying Miss Reade about the tragedy. Time enough for that in the morning. On the other hand, where was Higgins? As he was in closer touch with Clayton than anybody, he ought to be found.

“It’s a nuisance about this Higgins chap,” he said to Railton. “He’s probably away for the week-end. No chance of us finding out where he is, eh?”

Railton thought for a moment.

“Well, there’s David Hogg at the Hare and Hounds in Braithwaite. Higgins is a regular customer of his. He might know. If you like, I could run the bike in and find out, sir.”

Meredith at once fell in with the suggestion and Railton departed on his errand. Left alone with the body, Meredith’s thoughts again drifted to the curious fact of the waiting meal and the burnt-out kettle. Somehow he could not dismiss the fact with the facile explanation given by Dr. Burney. Granted suicides are often the result of temporary mental aberration, but everything in this case showed that Clayton had not acted on the spur of the moment. There was the hose-pipe, for example. Meredith had noted that it fitted exactly over the exhaust-pipe of the car. It may have been pure chance; on the other hand, it was a strong argument in favour of premeditation.

Then there was another point. Why had Clayton left the light burning in the cottage? If his idea was to be safe from interruption, this seemed an idiotic thing to do. A customer, not being able to make anybody hear at the garage, would naturally investigate at the cottage if they saw a lighted window. Then, finding nobody about, they would instinctively jump to the conclusion that something was wrong. And again—the time? There would be cars on the road, particularly as it was Saturday night. If anybody drawing up at the petrol-pumps shut off his engine he would be bound to hear the engine of the second car in the shed.

The more Meredith thought about it the less satisfied he was with the aspects of the case.

He searched round to see if Clayton had left any letter, either to the Coroner or to his fiancée, Miss Reade. But a cursory rummage round the room brought nothing to light. He then went methodically through the pockets of the dead man.

Clayton was dressed in buff dungarees, over a shiny, blue lounge suit. From the first Meredith extracted an adjustable spanner, a roll of insulating tape, one or two odd nuts and bolts and an oily piece of rag. These he placed on the table. From the pockets of the suit he obtained just those articles which a man of Clayton’s type and calling would naturally carry around with him. Pocket-knife, a bunch of keys, a packet of Players, matches, and so on. But there was no sign of any letter.

Turning out the light, Meredith closed the door of the cottage and returned to the lean-to shed. This time he examined more closely the coupling of the hose with the exhaust-pipe. Then putting on a pair of leather gloves, after a lot of cautious twisting and tugging he succeeded in working the hose free. At once he was struck by a fresh detail. The end of the hose-pipe which had been fitted over the exhaust had been newly severed. The white rubber had been cut through, leaving a clean circle, whilst the end of the hose which had been thrust under the mackintosh was both frayed and soiled.

“One more detail in favour of premeditation,” thought Meredith. “Obvious that the hose has been cut to an exact length.”

He then picked up the fish-tail end of the silencer, which lay under the rear-axle. Noticing that there was a bolted clip to fix it to the exhaust, he tried to get it back into place. After a lot more twisting and easing he succeeded in doing so. Then satisfied that there was nothing further to occupy his attention in the garage, he switched out the light and returned to the cottage.

His investigations in the lean-to left him more puzzled than ever and it was with a feeling of dissatisfaction that he began to pace up and down the little room. Clayton had obviously cut off that piece of hose to some predetermined measurement, and yet, after all his detailed preparations, what had he apparently done? Walked casually out of the cottage, after laying his meal, and as casually taken his life! Surely there was something wrong somewhere? A man doesn’t plan out a careful suicide and then, with a sudden reversion of tactics, put his plan so carelessly into execution.

Disturbed by these curious discrepancies in the affair, Meredith tugged off his gloves and flung them on to the white table-cloth. He was not the sort of man given to erratic flights of imagination. Reason, he always argued, was the common-sense basis on which to found a criminal investigation. And in this case what did his reason suggest? Did it mean that——?

Suddenly he broke off his meditations and uttered a sharp exclamation. His gaze was riveted on the table-cloth, now no longer white but sadly blackened by the contact of his gloves. An idea had flashed into his mind. The grime on his gloves had accrued from his fiddling with the fish-tail end of the exhaust. He realized, instantly, that it would be impossible for anybody to have unscrewed the fish-tail and to have replaced it with the hose without considerably blackening their hands. A fact which struck Meredith as extremely significant.

In two strides he was beside the body. With a quick action he caught hold of Clayton’s right hand and turned it palm upward. It was perfectly clean! Then the left hand. Clean also! Although there was a certain amount of ingrained dirt, it was startlingly clear that Clayton had recently washed his hands with soap and water. Then how, in the name of thunder, had he removed the silencer and fitted on the hose to the exhaust without soiling his hands?

Two explanations at once occurred to Meredith. Either Clayton had worn gloves or else he had fitted the hose to the exhaust some time before the tragedy. But why should he wear gloves? It was unlike a car mechanic to be squeamish about soiling his hands. And why run the risk of fixing the hose to the exhaust some time before the fatal apparatus was needed? Higgins probably had a key to the smaller garage. A lot would depend, of course, on what time Higgins had left the place, but with Higgins about it seemed pretty certain that Clayton wouldn’t be such a fool as to run the risk of his partner finding out about his intended suicide.

That being so—what did it mean? Was it within the bounds of possibility that somebody else, not Clayton, had coupled the hose with the pipe? If that were the case, all manner of unexpected suggestions opened out!

To begin with, it was quite natural that the tea should be laid and the kettle boiling. It was quite natural that the light should be burning in the parlour. Above all, it was quite natural that Clayton should have just washed his hands. If he was just about to sit down to his tea, wasn’t it obvious that he would first remove the grime of his labours?

And if Clayton hadn’t fixed the hose, then Clayton hadn’t committed suicide. It meant—but at that point the Inspector drew himself up short. Where was all this theorizing leading him? Weren’t his suspicions rather running away with his common sense? After all, the affair had every appearance of suicide and just because one or two extraordinary details of the case had intrigued him, he had no right to assume that it wasn’t suicide. Still, there it was. He would have to incorporate his suspicions into the official report. After that—well, he couldn’t do better than leave it to his superiors.

His meditations were cut short by Railton’s return.

“It’s all right, sir. I’ve traced him. He’s staying at the Beacon Hotel in Penrith. I didn’t wait to report first but got through on the ’phone from the Hare and Hounds.”

“Good. And he’s coming over?”

“Right away on his motor-bike. He should be here in under the hour, sir.”

“How did he take it, Railton?”

“Well, he sounded pretty cut up, of course. Surprised, too. Said something about it being ‘impossible’.”

The Inspector nodded. It was not the first time he had heard that particular phrase.

The constable’s prophecy proved correct, for in less than an hour a high-powered motor-bike roared up to the garage and a round-shouldered individual, encased in a leather coat and helmet, came quickly up the cottage path.

Without wasting time on preliminaries, Meredith introduced himself, uttered a few words of sympathy and got Mark Higgins formally to identify the body. Higgins was a thin, ferret-faced man of about thirty, and there was that about his speech which the Inspector immediately placed as Cockney. He seemed a highly strung sort of fellow, but Meredith was unable to say if this was normal or whether the shock of Clayton’s death had temporarily unnerved him. After answering a few official questions, Higgins drew off his helmet and gloves, wiped his rain-wet face with a handkerchief and, dropping into an arm-chair, lit a cigarette.

“Rather spoilt your week-end, Mr. Higgins,” observed Meredith casually. “When were you intending to return?”

“To-morrow afternoon. You see, I had business over in Penrith. I was meeting a customer of ours at eleven-thirty to-morrow morning. I hoped to fix him up with a second-hand car.” Higgins made a grimace. “Rather looks as if the deal’s off now, doesn’t it? Poor old Jack! Can’t think why he’s been and done this, Inspector. Never seemed that sort of chap to me. I can tell you, it’s fairly cut me up!”

“What time did you set off to-day for Penrith?”

“About quarter to six, I should think. And I’ll swear there was nothing strange about Jack when I left him. Mind you, I don’t say he hasn’t been a bit moody at times. It’s a lonely spot this in the winter months. Trade’s not been too brisk, neither.”

“You think that Clayton might have been a bit worried over the affairs of the garage?”

“It’s possible. Not that we’re in a bad way, but things always slacken off a lot in the winter. It’s the tourists we rely on to bring out the balance on the right side.”

Meredith nodded. He was rather puzzled by Higgins’s behaviour. He seemed shaken and genuinely upset about his partner’s death, yet at the same time curiously matter-of-fact. Probably he was trying to cover up any signs of what he considered unmanly emotion. However, as there seemed little point in questioning Higgins any further at the moment, Meredith explained that his presence would be required at the inquest and arranged to let him know the time and date.

“We shall have to get in touch with Clayton’s relatives, of course. Do you know anything about them?”

Higgins didn’t. He had always understood that his partner was an orphan. He had never heard him speak of any relatives, and he had rather gathered that, being a bit of a rolling stone, Clayton had not been in touch with his home circle for fifteen years or so. The two men had met, shortly after the War, in a Manchester pub. They both had a little capital and they had soon decided to go into partnership in a garage business. They had opened first in a Manchester suburb and later bought their present business at a favourable price when the late owner had suddenly decided to go abroad. Now, of course, Higgins didn’t know what was going to happen. He’d carry on, if he could, single-handed for a time and then, perhaps, look around for a new partner who was willing to put money into the concern.

Before he left, Meredith saw the body laid out on the bed in Clayton’s own room and got Higgins to accompany him to the lean-to. There Higgins identified the mackintosh as one belonging to his partner. The hose he remembered had been hanging in a woodshed behind the cottage with a lot of other old junk. No—as far as he knew, there hadn’t been any trouble between Jack and Lily Reade. Of course, she’d have to be told, wouldn’t she? Higgins gave the Inspector to understand that it wasn’t a job he particularly relished doing himself. Meredith reassured him on this point and promised to acquaint Miss Reade with the tragedy on the following day. Then after “Good nights” had been said, Railton motored the Inspector back to Keswick.

Early the next morning Meredith was in touch with the headquarters of the Cumberland County Constabulary at Carlisle. The result of his report was not long in coming to light. The Superintendent demanded his immediate presence at headquarters. Before coming over he was to see Miss Reade at Braithwaite and gather all particulars about her relationship with the dead man. From the trend of the conversation Meredith felt that headquarters were as dissatisfied with the superficial aspects of the case as he was.

At ten-thirty he was in Braithwaite, ringing the bell of the closed general store. The Reade family were just getting ready for church. In a few carefully chosen words the Inspector broke the news of the tragedy and when the unfortunate girl had, more or less, gained control of her emotions, Meredith signed for her parents to leave them alone in the overcrowded little front parlour.

“I quite realize how terrible this is for you,” said Meredith in kindly tones. “But I’m afraid there are one or two rather personal questions that I must ask you. Firstly, Miss Reade, I understand that you were officially engaged to Mr. Clayton?”

The girl nodded. The significance of that “were” in the Inspector’s sentence had not escaped her notice. The tears welled up into her eyes. In that one word lay the whole essence of tragedy for her.

“And I suppose that since your engagement there has been no quarrel of any sort? You haven’t had any disagreement or anything like that?”

Again the girl shook her head.

“No! Never!” she exclaimed. Then fighting back her tears she went on brokenly: “It was all fixed up. Jack was over only last Wednesday to see mother about the wedding. We were going to be married in early April. Then after our honeymoon we were planning to stay here for a week before going to Canada. Jack had already fixed up about the tickets. He had a job waiting for him out there. And now——”

The girl quickly buried her face in her hands and broke into renewed sobs. For some minutes Meredith preserved a discreet silence. He knew from long experience that it was inadvisable when certain vital information was needed from a witness, to ride roughshod over the human element in a case. Later he went on in a quiet voice. “I suppose Mr. Higgins knew about this arrangement? About Canada, I mean?”

The unhappy girl glanced up and shook her head. Then, struggling to overcome her acute distress, she said jerkily:

“No, Jack hadn’t told him when he was over on Wednesday. They haven’t been getting on too well of late. Jack knew it would mean an upset and he didn’t want to make things difficult along at the garage. He was going to wait until about six weeks before ... before our marriage—then he was going to tell Mark. He felt it would be better like that.”

Meredith agreed that he quite saw Clayton’s point of view.

“What was the trouble between them, Miss Reade?”

“Oh, one thing and another. I’m afraid Mark’s too fond of the public house. It meant that poor Jack had to do all the work. Mark was always gallivanting off somewhere. But it didn’t make any difference to the money. The agreement is, so Jack told me, that they share the profits. So you see how it is?”

The Inspector could see only too clearly. It meant that Clayton, who had the brains and energy, was being forced to carry Higgins like a dead weight on his back. Higgins was no better than a sleeping partner in the concern. He felt, however, that it would not be politic to question the unhappy girl any further until he had received more detailed instructions from Carlisle. So, after proffering his sympathies, he climbed into the side-car and instructed the constable to drive him to headquarters.

Superintendent Thompson was waiting in his office. The two men shook hands and settled down without delay to discuss the affair in hand. Whilst Meredith catalogued his suspicions, the Superintendent every now and then shot out a trenchant query. At the conclusion of Meredith’s statement he was obviously impressed.

“It strikes me, Inspector, that there’s a good deal that wants explaining away here. That matter of the waiting meal, for example, and the fact that Clayton’s hands were so clean. My feeling is that the coroner’s inquest should be adjourned, pending further inquiries. At first glance, I grant you, it looks like suicide. Probably it was meant to. If it’s not suicide, then the little scene staged in the garage was obviously a blind. That’s my idea, anyway.”

“And behind the blind, sir?” asked Meredith, meaningly.

“There is only one alternative. Murder. One can rule out accident, of course. A man with Clayton’s knowledge of engineering wouldn’t be such a fool as to experiment with exhaust fumes.”

“So what do you suggest, sir?”

“That you go ahead and find out who called at the garage after Higgins left for Penrith at 5.45. Anybody passing the place may also be able to give you information. The Chief’s over at Whitehaven to-day, but I’ll get in touch with him directly he’s back. In the meantime consider it your pigeon, Meredith. You started the hare and it’s for you to follow it up.”

Meredith left the office very well pleased with the interview. This carte blanche was just what he wanted. He felt more and more certain that there was some mystery behind Clayton’s death. More so since he had interviewed Lily Reade. If there had been a quarrel between the engaged couple, there would have been the motive for the suicide. But there hadn’t been a tiff. Clayton in fact had planned out his future with an exactitude which pretty nearly precluded the idea of contemplated suicide. There was the matter of the Canadian bookings, the plans for the wedding, the fixing of the date. Meredith decided that one of the first things to do was to verify from the steamship company the booking of the two berths. That, at any rate, would decide whether Clayton was playing square with Lily Reade.

Then there was Higgins. Suppose Higgins had learnt that Clayton had intended to sail for Canada and suppose that there was some existing arrangement that in the event of Clayton’s death, the money invested in the garage business was to go to Higgins? It would be doubly profitable for Higgins to get Clayton out of the way. Firstly Clayton’s capital in the concern would not be withdrawn, as would be the case if he sailed for Canada. Secondly that capital, in the event of his death, would go to Higgins. The thing was to get a glimpse of Clayton’s will, if such a document existed. If it had not been altered in favour of Lily Reade, here was a motive for Higgins’s desire to do away with his partner.

With these thoughts running round in his head, Meredith got Railton to draw up at the Beacon Hotel in Penrith, which was luckily on the route from Carlisle to Keswick.

The manager, who knew the Inspector, showed him at once into his private office.

“I won’t take up much of your time,” said Meredith. “But I want you to give me some information about a man called Mark Higgins.”

The manager, a fat, comfortable sort of soul, chuckled.

“Mark! What the devil’s he been up to?”

“Nothing—as far as I know. He says he intended to stay here last night.”

“Quite right, Inspector. He did book a room, but about 11 o’clock he had a ’phone-call from Braithwaite and he left in a hurry.”

“What time did he turn up here?”

“About six-thirty. And after a bit of supper he spent the rest of the evening in the bar. After closing-time he sat in the lounge until the ’phone call came. I didn’t charge him for booking the room because he’s a good customer of mine. He often pops over here for the week-ends.”

“Any idea why?”

“Company for the most part, I reckon. He’s what you might call a good mixer, is Mr. Higgins. He’s got a lot of pals here in Penrith, and I guess he finds the bar of the Beacon a bit more lively than a village ale-house.”

“I see. No other reasons for the visits as far as you know?”

“Well, I’m not so sure about that! If you keep your eyes and ears open you can often do a nice little bit of business over a pint of bitter. As a matter of fact, Higgins told me that he’d got a chap coming this morning to see him about a car. In the lounge here at 11.30, if I remember rightly. I’ve been half-expecting Mark to turn up and keep the appointment!”

Meredith glanced up at the clock. It was 11.25.

“Look here, Mr. Dawson—I want you to do me a favour. When this gentleman turns up, explain that Higgins was called away last night, and then get the fellow’s name and address. Tell him that Higgins had spoken about sending through a message but forgot to tell you where to forward it. Understand?”

The manager winked.

“Righto! I’ll do my best.” He glanced out through the glass door of his little office. “As a matter of fact this looks like our man now, Inspector. Shan’t be a jiffy!”

In less than a minute the manager was back in his office, beaming all over his amiable face.

“Got it!” he exclaimed. “Mr. William Rose, 32 Patterdale Road.”

“Good!”

“As it happens,” added the manager, “I know the chap quite well. He’s often in here. He’s the manager, or whatever they call it, of the Nonock petrol depot here. Daresay you know the place? Lies out about a quarter of a mile or more along the Keswick road.”

“Thanks, Mr. Dawson. No need to tell you, of course, to keep your mouth shut about all this?”

The manager winked again.

“That’s O.K., Inspector. Mum’s the word.”

“So far so good,” thought Meredith, as the combination purred off along the undulating Keswick road. “Higgins has got his alibi all right. That appointment looks genuine, too. It looks as if I can rule Mr. Higgins out of my suspect list right from the start.”

On the other hand, who but Higgins could have known about that length of hose-pipe? And who could have had time to fit up that lethal apparatus in the lean-to shed without rousing Clayton’s suspicion? It argued somebody with a good local knowledge. And who was gifted in this direction save Higgins?