寓所谜案18

Seventeen

Inspector Slack came round to see me the following morning. He is, Ithink, thawing towards me. In time, he may forget the incident of theclock.

“Well, sir,” he greeted me. “I’ve traced that telephone call that you re-ceived.”

“Indeed?” I said eagerly.

“It’s rather odd. It was put through from the North Lodge of Old Hall.

Now that lodge is empty, the lodgekeepers have been pensioned off andthe new lodgekeepers aren’t in yet. The place was empty and convenient—a window at the back was open. No fingerprints on the instrument itself—it had been wiped clear. That’s suggestive.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that it shows that call was put through deliberately to get youout of the way. Therefore the murder was carefully planned in advance. Ifit had been just a harmless practical joke, the fingerprints wouldn’t havebeen wiped off so carefully.”

“No. I see that.”

“It also shows that the murderer was well acquainted with Old Hall andits surroundings. It wasn’t Mrs. Protheroe who put that call through. I’veaccounted for every moment of her time that afternoon. There are half adozen other servants who can swear that she was at home till five thirty.

Then the car came round and drove Colonel Protheroe and her to the vil-lage. The Colonel went to see Quinton, the vet, about one of the horses.

Mrs. Protheroe did some ordering at the grocers and at the fish shop, andfrom there came straight down the back lane where Miss Marple saw her.

All the shops agree she carried no handbag with her. The old lady wasright.”

“She usually is,” I said mildly.

“And Miss Protheroe was over at Much Benham at 5:30.”

“Quite so,” I said. “My nephew was there too.”

“That disposes of her. The maid seems all right—a bit hysterical and up-set, but what can you expect? Of course, I’ve got my eye on the butler—what with giving notice and all. But I don’t think he knows anything aboutit.”

“Your inquiries seem to have had rather a negative result, Inspector.”

“They do and they do not, sir. There’s one very queer thing has turnedup—quite unexpectedly, I may say.”

“Yes?”

“You remember the fuss that Mrs. Price Ridley, who lives next door toyou, was kicking up yesterday morning? About being rung up on the tele-phone?”

“Yes?” I said.

“Well, we traced the call just to calm her—and where on this earth doyou think it was put through from?”

“A call office?” I hazarded.

“No, Mr. Clement. That call was put through from Mr. Lawrence Red-ding’s cottage.”

“What?” I exclaimed, surprised.

“Yes. A bit odd, isn’t it? Mr. Redding had nothing to do with it. At thattime, 6:30, he was on his way to the Blue Boar with Dr. Stone in full viewof the village. But there it is. Suggestive, eh? Someone walked into thatempty cottage and used the telephone, who was it? That’s two queer tele-phone calls in one day. Makes you think there’s some connection betweenthem. I’ll eat my hat if they weren’t both put through by the same person.”

“But with what object?”

“Well, that’s what we’ve got to find out. There seems no particular pointin the second one, but there must be a point somewhere. And you see thesignificance? Mr. Redding’s house used to telephone from. Mr. Redding’spistol. All throwing suspicion on Mr. Redding.”

“It would be more to the point to have put through the first call from hishouse,” I objected.

“Ah, but I’ve been thinking that out. What did Mr. Redding do most af-ternoons? He went up to Old Hall and painted Miss Protheroe. And fromhis cottage he’d go on his motor bicycle, passing through the North Gate.

Now you see the point of the call being put through from there. The mur-derer is someone who didn’t know about the quarrel and that Mr. Reddingwasn’t going up to Old Hall any more.”

I reflected a moment to let the Inspector’s points sink into my brain.

They seemed to me logical and unavoidable.

“Were there any fingerprints on the receiver in Mr. Redding’s cottage?”

I asked.

“There were not,” said the Inspector bitterly. “That dratted old womanwho goes and does for him had been and dusted them off yesterday morn-ing.” He reflected wrathfully for a few minutes. “She’s a stupid old fool,anyway. Can’t remember when she saw the pistol last. It might have beenthere on the morning of the crime, or it might not. ‘She couldn’t say, she’ssure.’ They’re all alike!

“Just as a matter of form, I went round and saw Dr. Stone,” he went on.

“I must say he was pleasant as could be about it. He and Miss Cram wentup to that mound—or barrow—or whatever you call it, about half past twoyesterday, and stayed there all the afternoon. Dr. Stone came back alone,and she came later. He says he didn’t hear any shot, but admits he’s ab-sentminded. But it all bears out what we think.”

“Only,” I said, “you haven’t caught the murderer.”

“H’m,” said the Inspector. “It was a woman’s voice you heard throughthe telephone. It was in all probability a woman’s voice Mrs. Price Ridleyheard. If only that shot hadn’t come hard on the close of the telephone call—well, I’d know where to look.”

“Where?”

“Ah! That’s just what it’s best not to say, sir.”

Unblushingly, I suggested a glass of old port. I have some very fine oldvintage port. Eleven o’clock in the morning is not the usual time for drink-ing port, but I did not think that mattered with Inspector Slack. It was, ofcourse, cruel abuse of the vintage port, but one must not be squeamishabout such things.

When Inspector Slack had polished off the second glass, he began to un-bend and become genial. Such is the effect of that particular port.

“I don’t suppose it matters with you, sir,” he said. “You’ll keep it to your-self? No letting it get round the parish.”

I reassured him.

“Seeing as the whole thing happened in your house, it almost seems asthough you have a right to know.”

“Just what I feel myself,” I said.

“Well, then, sir, what about the lady who called on Colonel Protheroethe night before the murder?”

“Mrs. Lestrange,” I cried, speaking rather loud in my astonishment.

The Inspector threw me a reproachful glance.

“Not so loud, sir. Mrs. Lestrange is the lady I’ve got my eye on. You re-member what I told you—blackmail.”

“Hardly a reason for murder. Wouldn’t it be a case of killing the goosethat laid the golden eggs? That is, assuming that your hypothesis is true,which I don’t for a minute admit.”

The Inspector winked at me in a common manner.

“Ah! She’s the kind the gentlemen will always stand up for. Now lookhere, sir. Suppose she’s successfully blackmailed the old gentleman in thepast. After a lapse of years, she gets wind of him, comes down here andtries it on again. But, in the meantime, things have changed. The law hastaken up a very different stand. Every facility is given nowadays to peopleprosecuting for blackmail—names are not allowed to be reported in thepress. Suppose Colonel Protheroe turns round and says he’ll have the lawon her. She’s in a nasty position. They give a very severe sentence forblackmail. The boot’s on the other leg. The only thing to do to save herselfis to put him out good and quick.”

I was silent. I had to admit that the case the Inspector had built up wasplausible. Only one thing to my mind made it inadmissable—the personal-ity of Mrs. Lestrange.

“I don’t agree with you, Inspector,” I said. “Mrs. Lestrange doesn’t seemto me to be a potential blackmailer. She’s — well, it’s an old- fashionedword, but she’s a—lady.”

He threw me a pitying glance.

“Ah! well, sir,” he said tolerantly, “you’re a clergyman. You don’t knowhalf of what goes on. Lady indeed! You’d be surprised if you knew some ofthe things I know.”

“I’m not referring to mere social position. Anyway, I should imagineMrs. Lestrange to be a déclassée. What I mean is a question of—personalrefinement.”

“You don’t see her with the same eyes as I do, sir. I may be a man—butI’m a police officer, too. They can’t get over me with their personal refine-ment. Why, that woman is the kind who could stick a knife into youwithout turning a hair.”

Curiously enough, I could believe Mrs. Lestrange guilty of murder muchmore easily than I could believe her capable of blackmail.

“But, of course, she can’t have been telephoning to the old lady nextdoor and shooting Colonel Protheroe at one and the same time,” continuedthe Inspector.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when he slapped his leg fero-ciously.

“Got it,” he exclaimed. “That’s the point of the telephone call. Kind ofalibi. Knew we’d connect it with the first one. I’m going to look into this.

She may have bribed some village lad to do the phoning for her. He’dnever think of connecting it with the murder.”

The Inspector hurried off.

“Miss Marple wants to see you,” said Griselda, putting her head in. “Shesent over a very incoherent note—all spidery and underlined. I couldn’tread most of it. Apparently she can’t leave home herself. Hurry up and goacross and see her and find out what it is. I’ve got my old women comingin two minutes or I’d come myself. I do hate old women—they tell youabout their bad legs and sometimes insist on showing them to you. Whatluck that the inquest is this afternoon! You won’t have to go and watch theBoys’ Club Cricket Match.”

I hurried off, considerably exercised in my mind as to the reason for thissummons.

I found Miss Marple in what, I believe, is described as a fluster. She wasvery pink and slightly incoherent.

“My nephew,” she explained. “My nephew, Raymond West, the author.

He is coming down today. Such a to-do. I have to see to everything myself.

You cannot trust a maid to air a bed properly, and we must, of course,have a meat meal tonight. Gentlemen require such a lot of meat, do theynot? And drink. There certainly should be some drink in the house—and asiphon.”

“If I can do anything—” I began.

“Oh! How very kind. But I did not mean that. There is plenty of timereally. He brings his own pipe and tobacco, I am glad to say. Glad becauseit saves me from knowing which kind of cigarettes are right to buy. Butrather sorry, too, because it takes so long for the smell to get out of thecurtains. Of course, I open the window and shake them well very earlyevery morning. Raymond gets up very late—I think writers often do. Hewrites very clever books, I believe, though people are not really nearly sounpleasant as he makes out. Clever young men know so little of life, don’tyou think?”

“Would you like to bring him to dinner at the Vicarage?” I asked, stillunable to gather why I had been summoned.

“Oh! No, thank you,” said Miss Marple. “It’s very kind of you,” she ad-ded.

“There was—er—something you wanted to see me about, I think,” I sug-gested desperately.

“Oh! Of course. In all the excitement it had gone right out of my head.”

She broke off and called to her maid. “Emily—Emily. Not those sheets. Thefrilled ones with the monogram, and don’t put them too near the fire.”

She closed the door and returned to me on tiptoe.

“It’s just rather a curious thing that happened last night,” she explained.

“I thought you would like to hear about it, though at the moment it doesn’tseem to make sense. I felt very wakeful last night—wondering about allthis sad business. And I got up and looked out of my window. And what doyou think I saw?”

I looked, inquiring.

“Gladys Cram,” said Miss Marple, with great emphasis. “As I live, goinginto the wood with a suitcase.”

“A suitcase?”

“Isn’t it extraordinary? What should she want with a suitcase in thewood at twelve o’clock at night?

“You see,” said Miss Marple, “I dare say it has nothing to do with themurder. But it is a Peculiar Thing. And just at present we all feel we musttake notice of Peculiar Things.”

“Perfectly amazing,” I said. “Was she going to—er—sleep in the barrowby any chance?”

“She didn’t, at any rate,” said Miss Marple. “Because quite a short timeafterwards she came back, and she hadn’t got the suitcase with her.”

 

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