Nailsworth and Thorne gave Dr. Jaques the policeman’s look—the leisurely, ruminant, top-to-toe gaze, neutral yet oppressive, by means of which, had some supernatural agency whisked him from sight after five seconds, they could have catalogued him down to the last button on his coat-sleeve. The Chief Constable introduced himself and his colleagues to their visitor, invited him to sit down, glanced at the Chief Inspector.
“I understand, sir, you have some information to give us about the death of Inspector Stone,” said Nailsworth. It was like a machine talking—a machine adjusted to an endlessly repetitive ritual.
“Yes, I think I can—”
“Your name and address, sir.”
“You have them on that card in your hand.”
“You are a doctor of medicine?” Nailsworth went on, ponderous as a steam-roller, undeflectible from his routine.
While the ritual questions proceeded, Colonel Allison studied their visitor. His first impression, when Dr. Jaques entered, had been of a man uncertain of his welcome yet sure of his status: a photographer, as it might be, at a society wedding—not exactly obsequious, but not brashly pushful either—ready to play a needed part unobtrusively and professionally. There was nothing obviously offensive about him; yet Colonel Allison found himself thinking, “impudent fella—a bit smooth.” Perhaps it was the man’s eyes; a hint of mockery behind their deference. He looked sane enough, anyway, which was more than could be said of most of the funnies who had bowled along to assist the police. No, not a photographer, thought the Colonel now; an actor. The glib speech, quick on its cues: the rather theatrical fluff of white hair (cast him for the benevolent if eccentric uncle, back from Australia, his fortune made, ready to help out the struggling young couple): above all, the face was surely an actor’s, with its mobile mouth and loose flesh—a face which, by rearrangement of its fluid planes, could become a different face, or at any rate the face of a quite different character.
The Chief Constable pulled himself out of these unprofitable musings. Or rather, he was abruptly jerked out of them by the doctor’s replying to some official phrase of Nailsworth’s, “No, no, I’ve not come here to make a confession.” It was not the words so much as the light, amused tone in which they were spoken that gave Colonel Allison an obscure sensation of outrage. And, as if Dr. Jaques was instantly aware of this without even needing to have looked at the Chief Constable’s face, his voice changed colour and he went on, soberly, with a worried expression, “I’m afraid it’s a good deal more difficult than that. For me.”
“If you will give us your statement, sir, in your own words,” said Nailsworth patiently. “Keeping to the facts, please—no hearsay, or theorising.”
“On the morning of October 10th I was rung up in London by Mark Amberley,” began Dr. Jaques, in a manner that might have been the most delicate parody of a police constable giving evidence in a magistrate’s court. “He told me that his brother had telephoned to him from Southbourne, asking him urgently to come down, bringing money with him: he was to ask me if I could come too. I have known Mark’s brother for some time. He changed his name, seven or eight years ago, to Chesterman—Hugo Chesterman.”
“Wait a minute!” Thorne was snapping his fingers like a schoolboy trying to remember the right answer. “Amberley. Amberley. Hugo Amberley? No. Chesterman… I’ve got it—Chester Hugh Amberley. Was that his original name?”
Jacko lowered his eyes, and a look of pain passed over his face. “Yes. I see you remember. Hugo changed his name after being released from prison.”
“Jewel robbery, wasn’t it?”
“I believe so,” said Jacko, inclining his head. “I travelled down here with Mark. We read about the death of your Inspector Stone in the morning paper. When we got to Hugo’s lodgings”—Jacko gave the address—“he’d told Mark, by the way, to ask for him by a different name, we found him and Daisy in a very agitated state. Daisy Bland, I should have said, is a girl he has been living with for some eighteen months.”
“Would she be a striking blonde?” asked Thorne, with a flick of the eye at Nailsworth.
“I suppose you could describe her that way,” replied Jacko coldly. “She is a patient of mine. She will become a mother towards the end of December. Hugo told us that he had run out of money, and was frightened of the police connecting him with the murder, being a man with a police record, if his presence in Southbourne were discovered. He said he must go into hiding for a bit, till the fuss, as he put it, had blown over.”
Nailsworth drew in a sharp breath, clenching his fist.
“We gave him some money, and I agreed to put up Miss Bland in my own house. She’s there now. Mark returned to London with Hugo, and Miss Bland and I followed by a later train.”
“Did it not occur to you and Mr. Amberley that you might be compounding a felony?” asked the Chief Inspector.
Jacko made a little grimace. “I really don’t remember. I’m fond of Hugo and Daisy, and they were in trouble. One does what one can for one’s friends, under such circumstances.” He took out a clean, folded handkerchief and dabbed his lips. “Besides, Hugo swore he had nothing to do with the crime. I did try to impress on him that, if he ran away, it would look like a confession of guilt, but the poor old boy was too panicky to see reason.”
The doctor paused—for so long that Nailsworth at last prompted him. “Well, sir?”
“Well?”
“What account did Mr. Chesterman give you of his movements?”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I thought you wanted no hearsay evidence.”
Nailsworth’s lips tightened. The Chief Constable put in curtly, “You may tell us that, Doctor.”
“He said he just happened to be somewhere else when the crime was committed, but couldn’t prove it.”
Nailsworth leant heavily towards him, his face redder even than usual.
“Do you say you were ‘satisfied’ by that? Went round the corner to see a man about a dog—that’s what it amounts to, eh?” The Chief Inspector was evidently holding himself in by a mere thread.
“One believes one’s friends,” replied Jacko, not without dignity.
“When they are convicted jewel thieves? You are not normally in the habit, I take it, of consorting with—”
“Steady, Nailsworth,” warned Colonel Allison.
“I know it must sound pretty impossible to you chaps,” said Jacko, with a pleasant, open smile. “I can only say that I believed Hugo had been going straight, recently, and I’m naïve enough to imagine that a conviction for robbery doesn’t turn a fundamentally decent young chap into a murderer.”
“But, since then, you’ve changed your mind, sir?” Thorne’s colourless expression—he might have been a clerk in a booking-office discussing a destination with a traveller—betrayed nothing of the excitement throbbing within him. He remembered now that Amberley, alias Chesterman, had been a cat burglar of phenomenal agility: it was all fitting in.
Dr. Jaques made a deprecatory gesture, his open hands pushing away something from before him: he’s like a dog, thought the Chief Constable, sitting up begging, its fore-paws scrabbling at the air.
“You changed your mind,” Thorne repeated.
The doctor’s features fell, or rearranged themselves, into an agonised expression: he seemed to be having difficulty with his voice.
“I’m afraid so. Yes. Last night I had a long talk with Miss Bland. She was in an overwrought condition, on the verge of collapse. I thought it would be good for her to talk it out of her system—what had happened down here.” He gulped. “Look here, must you have all this?”
“It’s what you came down here to tell us, isn’t it?” Colonel Allison tried to conceal his growing distaste for the man, but not altogether successfully. He was startled by a dart of rancour, really venomous, from the doctor’s eyes.
“It’s not very public-school, I agree,” said Jacko. “But one’s public-school code—my friends, right or wrong—doesn’t seem to me altogether adequate when a policeman has been shot in cold blood.”
The Chief Constable frowned. This damnable fellow had gone right to the spot, like a mind-reader: the public-school code, that the only unforgivable sin is to betray one’s friends, was exactly what had been colouring the Colonel’s mind during this interview. And worse—the doctor’s last remark had adroitly driven a wedge between the Colonel and his two subordinates, who were unhampered by this sort of gentlemanliness.
“Can we keep to the point,” he said. “Your talk with Miss—er—Bland.”
Jacko related it, at full length and with little hesitation, to the continuo of the stenographer’s pencil. When he had finished, there was a brief silence.
“Have you seen this revolver of Chesterman’s? Do you know what make it is?” the Chief Inspector asked.
“I don’t.”
“But your private opinion is that he did not get rid of it, as Miss Bland wished you to believe, after the altercation at his brother’s house?”
“That is my impression. I only hope I am wrong.”
“You know Chesterman’s present whereabouts, I take it?”
Jacko’s eyes flickered. Then, a little too quickly, he said, “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“That is unfortunate. Most unfortunate.” Nailsworth’s tone conveyed somehow that it might be even more unfortunate for Dr. Jaques than for the police. “But surely Miss Bland is in touch with him?”
“Not to my knowledge. Of course, you can ask her.”
“We shall, sir. And now, perhaps you will give us a description of Chesterman.”
“But Scotland Yard will have that on its files.”
“You can bring it up to date for us. If you please, sir,” Nailsworth relentlessly pressed him.
“Oh well, if I must, I must.”
The Chief Constable abruptly rose. His Intelligence work during the war had involved him in some pretty unscrupulous transactions; but they had never caused him the physical nausea which he felt in Dr. Jaques’ presence. Nailsworth and Thorne had stronger stomachs—best leave it to them.
“Just remembered. An appointment with the Town Clerk. Will you carry on, Chief Inspector,” he said; and with a curt nod he strode briskly from the office.
As the door closed, Thorne observed a queer little grin on Dr. Jaques’s face—a grin of relief? satisfaction? or was it just a reflex to the Colonel’s brusque treatment? The atmosphere in the room was more relaxed, at any rate, after his departure—so relaxed, indeed, that when the doctor’s description of Hugo Chesterman had been taken down, Thorne suddenly poked his long nose at him, saying in a tone of complicity, camaraderie almost:
“Now, come off it, Doctor. Don’t tell me you don’t know where Chesterman is hiding up. You must have some channel of communication with him, anyway?”
The expression of disapproval on Nailsworth’s huge face faded into one of crafty alertness. All right: if that was the way to take this medico to pieces, he could do his share of the bouncing. He made a little sign, dismissing the stenographer from the room.
“Look, you’ve got that description,” said Jacko. “You really can’t ask me to do more. It’s—”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but we are asking you. This description is all very well: but we don’t want Chesterman slipping out of our hands. We’ve got to find him at once.”
“You’re talking as if he—as if the case was already proved against him,” Jacko protested.
“You’ve certainly convinced me, sir, that there is a strong case against him theoretically, on our present evidence.” Thorne spoke without apparent irony, still in that tone of something like matiness. Watching the two, Nailsworth was astounded to find himself thinking “birds of a feather.”
“If he is innocent,” Thorne continued, “he’ll be able to prove it—and the sooner, the better. His young woman must be in great suspense. Bad for her. But you’re a doctor—I don’t need to tell you that.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Jacko, with a sort of eagerness, as though this consideration, presented to him for the first time, offered him an honourable way out.
“This girl now, Daisy Bland—was she an accomplice of his, in his jewel robberies?” asked Nailsworth heavily.
Thorne could have kicked the Chief Inspector. After playing the doctor so skilfully, and all but landing him, to have the line snapped by this clumsy intervention!
Dr. Jaques froze up. “Really, Chief Inspector, what an extraordinary question! How should I know? I assure you I was never in their confidence to that extent. Apart from anything else, my professional—”
“Quite, sir, quite.” Thorne attempted to close this exhibition of huffiness. “As we were saying, it’s simply a matter of getting in touch with Chesterman as soon as possible. If he’s innocent, well and good. We’re only asking you—”
“I’ve already told you. I don’t know his whereabouts.”
“Then I advise you, for your own good, to find out,” said Nailsworth menacingly. He had had enough of this velvet glove stuff: an obscure resentment smouldered in him, at Thorne’s making all the running; and his anger over the killing of Inspector Stone was implacable.
“Are you threatening me?” said Jacko. “I come here to help the police, and—”
Nailsworth’s huge fist crashed down on the table. “You’re in a very awkward position. I’m warning you. You’ve already compounded a felony, it may be, by assisting this man to escape from Southbourne. You are harbouring a woman who is very likely his accomplice.”
“Oh bosh!” exclaimed Jacko, quite unintimidated. He might have been trying to goad the Chief Inspector into violence.
“Don’t you take that line with me!” Nailsworth made a powerful effort to control himself. “I’m just telling you. Ask yourself how it’ll look when the case comes into court. A doctor’s professional reputation is easily lost, eh? A doctor who is on intimate terms with a jewel thief and his mistress: a doctor who helps a murderer and obstructs the police—oh yes, it’ll all come out.”
“I can see why you sent away your stenographer. Didn’t want him to hear you blackmailing a witness—sorry, putting pressure on a witness sounds better, doesn’t it?” Jacko appeared to be enjoying himself hugely.
“Come now, sir, do you wish to co-operate with us, or not?” asked Thorne.
“I’ve given you a statement. Don’t you call that cooperation?”
“Should Chesterman get in touch with you, before we’ve found him ourselves, are you prepared to communicate the fact to us?”
“Well,” said Jacko guardedly, “that’s asking a hell of a lot of me.”
“I’m asking you to do your duty as a citizen.”
Oh God, thought Nailsworth, the double-talk again!
“You realise, sir, of course, that we may have to inquire into your own bona fides?” Thorne smoothly proceeded. “Just the usual routine inquiries. You have a partner, I suppose?”
“No.” For the first time, Jacko looked uneasy.
“Must be awkward for you, then—these visits to Southbourne? Cancelling your appointments at such short notice?”
“My appointments?”
“Your patients. You did say you were a doctor of medicine, didn’t you, sir? You are in practice?”
“Oh, yes. Private practice. I take a few patients. I’ve money of my own.”
“Ah. I see.” Thorne made it sound uncommonly sinister. “Well, sir, if you’ll read and sign your statement, we’ll not keep you any longer from your professional duties.”
There was silence till the typewritten sheets were brought in, silence while Jacko read through them and signed his name at the end.
“If you’ll also initial each page, please, sir,” said Thorne: then, “That will be all. For the present. You may be hearing from us. Good morning, Doctor Jaques.”
Was there the faintest stress on “Doctor”? Nailsworth didn’t know what his colleague was up to, but he’d let him play it his own way. The two police officers appeared to have lost all interest in their witness: Thorne even turned his back as Dr. Jaques went to the door; and it was Thorne’s back which, from the doorway, Jacko addressed:
“Look here. Supposing Hugo does get in touch with me—what line am I to take?”
Nailsworth expelled a long, slow breath. Thorne, speaking over his shoulder, not looking at Jacko, said, “That’s up to you, Doctor. You could make an appointment to meet him, in some public place probably. And you have our telephone number.”
Jacko came back a little way into the room. “Are you suggesting I should be actually present when you arrest him?”
“We should detain him for questioning. We could detain you too, if that’d make your mind easier, Doctor.”
“But, damn it, he’s a friend of mine.”
“Very painful for you, sir, I realise. Well, it’s up to you. Oh, one thing more, Doctor,” said Thorne when Jacko was at the door again. “This girl, Daisy Bland. Was Chesterman intending to marry her? In the near future?”
“I—I really don’t know. Why?”
“Just wondered. Her health good?” Thorne’s voice was cheerful and detached.
“Oh yes. She’s quite a robust young woman. But I don’t—”
“Rather an ordeal for her, giving evidence in court. Think she’d stand up to it, in her present condition?”
“My dear chap, there’s no question of her giving evidence against him.”
“Why? She’s not his wife.”
There was the briefest pause, before Jacko replied, “Oh, I see… What I meant was, she’s devoted to him. She wouldn’t do it.”
The door had hardly closed behind Doctor Jaques when the Chief Inspector was giving instructions on the internal telephone that he should be shadowed.
“And now, my lad,” he turned formidably to Thorne. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”
“Sir?” asked Thorne innocently.
“Oh, come off it. You as good as tell that blighter to arrange a marriage pronto between Chesterman and his girl. A wife can’t give evidence against her husband. And without this girl’s evidence we shouldn’t have a hope in hell. You must be off your rocker.”
“No, Chief. What I was conveying to the doctor is that he should damn well see to it they don’t get married.”
Nailsworth stared at him incredulously. “You really think?—But he’s fond of them—must be, to help Chesterman out and take the girl into his house.”
“Maybe he’s fond of the girl. Maybe he’s too fond of her by half. So he comes in here, oh, ever so reluctantly—it’s a painful business informing against your best friend, but every right-thinking citizen must assist the Law—and puts the spot on this Chesterman. No doubt he’ll be comforting the girl on the morning of the execution. Nothing like a good solid family friend when you’re in trouble.” Thorne spoke with a raging bitterness that Nailsworth had never encountered before.
“Draw it mild, old man. He’s a queer cuss all right, but—”
“He’s rotten from top to toe. It’ll take me months to wash him out of my system. He plays it dirty. And this Chesterman, if he did it, he played it dirty too. So I’ve got to play dirty. Sometimes I wish I was in some decent clean job—like sewage-tasting.”