I
In a case such as Macdonald was handling now, time was a factor to be reckoned with in more senses than one. He realised that it would be all too easy to prove a case and get a Coroner’s verdict on circumstantial evidence alone. If Neil Folliner were brought before a Coroner’s jury, the bald facts of his arrest in the murdered man’s room would be enough to produce a verdict which would commit him for trial as a murderer. There was motive, means and opportunity: for his defence he had nothing but the bare statement “I didn’t do it.” On the other hand, if the evidence against Mr. Lewis Verraby were hastily collated and similarly put forward, a similar verdict might be given in his case. Each was obvious, on its own merits—or demerits.
Macdonald wanted time—time to investigate every possibility fully. It always seemed to him that the stigma of the pronouncement “guilty” on the part of a Coroner’s jury was a thing to be avoided when there was any doubt at all. The procedure which he preferred—and which he hoped to follow—was this. Folliner, having been charged, was in the hands of the civil police, and, like any other person he would appear at the inquest, fixed for the following morning. (The murder had been committed on the evening of Monday, January 20th. The inquest was fixed for the morning of Wednesday, January 22nd.) At the inquest, Macdonald hoped for a brief sitting, in which the formalities of deceased’s identification, discovery and place of death should be stated by witnesses as the law required, and then an immediate adjournment, “pending the production of further evidence.”
Fortunately, the Coroner of the London district where the inquest would be held was an experienced and able man, who understood the desirability of co-operating with the police and not embarrassing them, as it was possible for an inexperienced or self-seeking Coroner to do. Furthermore, the present practitioner was a man who “would prevent his witnesses making fools of themselves,” as Jenkins had once put it. Macdonald guessed that Mr. Lewis Verraby, for instance, would be very firmly dealt with if he tried donning the mantles of both judge and jury in the Coroner’s Court. One retired Coroner of the Metropolitan Courts had once told Macdonald that he considered the main function of his office was to control the imbecilities inherent in human nature. “You always get at least one idiot on a jury—generally the sort of fellow who wants to draw attention to himself by asking unnecessary questions, and as for witnesses, it takes the patience of Job to keep them to the point and prevent them repeating hearsay as fact.”
Having arranged the time of the inquest and made such suggestions as to the calling of witnesses which came within his province, Macdonald had organised his further investigations. Inspector Jenkins was left to the task he had begun: that of going through the papers in Mr. Albert Folliner’s room. Inspector Ward was entrusted with the task of preliminary enquiries into the transactions of Mr. Lewis Verraby. Ward was one of the Hendon-trained officers of the C.I.D., still a youngster, and a very able one. A motoring accident which had left him slightly lame had prevented him joining-up with the armed forces, as some of his fellows had obtained permission to do. Ward was a lawyer’s son, and he had just the needful qualities to enable him to make the necessary enquiries about Verraby without doing that gentleman the injustice of prejudicing his position in the eyes of his business associates.
For the moment Macdonald himself wanted to concentrate on number 25, Hollyberry Hill, the studio, and immediate surroundings. The “obvious” channels were all being investigated. The Chief Inspector had a few ideas of his own concerning less obvious ones. Characteristically, Macdonald set down all evidence very fully in his official report, but he did not (sometimes to Colonel Wragley’s annoyance) consider it incumbent on him to set out all his own ideas until he had either “exploded or confirmed them,” to use his own phrase.
II
Detective Reeves had been given a number of small jobs to do in connection with the Folliner case, and he entered into them all with the enthusiasm which made him such a valuable member of the C.I.D. Reeves was only thirty years of age, and if he had had his way, he would have been expending his enthusiasm in the R.A.F., but the authorities considered that as a trained and expert detective, he was of more value in the C.I.D. Reeves had complained bitterly to Macdonald that he wanted to “have a crack at ’em”—meaning the enemy; “you’ve let all the beefy young idiots go, and I have to stick on here at the same old grind,” said Reeves.
Macdonald nodded. “So do I, you’re not the only chap who’d like to be somewhere else,” replied the Chief Inspector.
Macdonald had always liked Reeves, valuing his capacity for hard work, his Cockney wit and courage, but during the winter of 1940 a closer bond had tied the two men together. They had worked with the Rescue Squads when London was raided night after night, and had survived dangers and witnessed horrors unforgettable. There was no risk which Reeves would not take, but he used his wits all the time, and his wits saved many lives, as Macdonald had cause to know.
One of Reeves’ first jobs was to visit the A.R.P. headquarters for the Hollyberry Hill district, and to see the Head Warden.
“Have you had any trouble with inefficient black-out at number 25 or at the studio there?” he enquired.
“Not just recently, but a lot earlier on,” replied the warden. “The previous tenants of the studio were a tiresome lot, and I had to have them summonsed. However they packed up in August ’41, and the studio was vacant until three months ago. Miss Manaton is a sensible woman—she’s a lady, too—and I knew she was doing her best. It took a bit of fixing up to get that north light properly blacked out, it was necessary to paint six inches all round the glass, as the curtains never fitted properly, and even when they got a frame fitted up it showed chinks. Manaton himself is a tiresome customer—wanted to keep his blessed top-light clear, but his sister took no end of trouble over it. She made him get the glass blacked at the edges eventually, and she undertook to go out and inspect herself every night. I haven’t had any complaints since then. As for number 25, it was no end of a picnic. It took the old man some time to get it into his head that black-out regulations mean what they say. After he’d been warned once or twice, he took off every bulb in his house barring his bedroom. He’s got shutters there, and was in the habit of using them, but the shutters have got holes bored in them, and they fit badly. At last his charwoman got the job done, pasted up the holes, and made curtains out of every bit of old rag she could collect from the rest of the house. Anyway, as a black-out it functions all right. You can’t see a glimmer at nights now.”
“Thanks, that’s what I wanted to know,” said Reeves. “Incidentally, you don’t know where the previous tenants of the studio moved to, do you?”
“No idea. Out of London somewhere. They got the jitters. They just did a bunk one day, but they came back for their furniture a month or two later. D’you want to trace them?”
“Yes. There’s one or two points they might help with.”
“Hm… m.” The Senior Warden pondered. Like everyone else in the neighbourhood he was interested in the Folliner case. “I wondered a bit myself,” he said, “though it’s best to wonder under one’s breath, if you take me. The name of the tenant was Stort—Randall Stort—and a nasty bit of work he was, but a clever painter, I believe. He used to be in and out of number 25, because he had a lady-friend living there for a bit. Old Folliner used to let rooms to anyone who was green enough to take them, and a girl who was supposed to be an artist’s model was living on the ground floor there for a month or two before the outbreak of war. I’ve wondered to myself if Randall Stort had anything to do with Folliner’s end. There are such conflicting stories about the old man. Some say he was a pauper, some say a miser.”
Reeves nodded. “Yes, and those who believed that he was a miser would have assumed he’d got a hoard put away somewhere. Did you know Stort, personally?”
“Only on account of my job. I’ve been doing Civil Defence work in this district since ’39, and we got to know most of the people in our sections to some extent—first the gas-mask business, then black-out and shelter duties. I spoke to Stort a good many times, and I’ve been into the studio reading the riot act about his black-out, and giving him advice. He was what I call a mess—and so was his stable mate, a laddy called… what the hell was his name… it sounded French, and I always thought he was a fifth columnist, or worse. Listelle, that was it.”
“Did you see any of Stort’s paintings?”
“Yes, just to glance at. He did a lot of portraits, bold-faced wenches and shoddy looking men, but they were striking—vigorous work I’d call it.”
“Did you ever see a portrait he did of old Folliner?”
The warden shook his head. “No. How do you know he did one?”
“Mrs. Tubbs told us. I suppose you can’t remember the name of the firm who moved Stort’s furniture?”
“Yes, I can, by gum! I happened to notice—it was Bickford’s van. Bright ideas you chaps have.”
Reeves laughed. “It’ll take a lot of my bright ideas before we arrive at anything. I know the game. We shall trace Stort to some safe little country cottage… and we shall find he didn’t stay there for long. Got bored with the fields, or too far from a pub. After a lot of trouble we shall trace him to three or four other places, and then find he came back to London one night and got his ticket in a raid. I’m used to that story.”
The warden laughed: “I should never have thought you were a pessimist—you don’t look one. Incidentally, it was Stort and Listelle who dug that hole in the garden of 25, silly fools! I had one good laugh over them: I bet the only time they’d ever bent their backs to a spade was when they made their ‘dug-out.’ They were frightened stiff, both of them. It took fear to make them work.”
“How old were they?”
“Stort might have been 50, or a bit less. Difficult to tell. He was grizzled, and face lined a bit. Listelle was younger, but he was an under-sized little rat—typical C3. None of the services would have looked at him. Incidentally, you know the studio and garden—so called?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’ll have noticed that the gardens of Hollyberry Hill back on to Sedgemoor Avenue. Stort used to frequent a pub called the Spotted Dog; he painted their signboard incidentally. He found out that his quickest way home from the pub to the studio was by the garden of the house in Sedgemoor Avenue which backs on to 25 Hollyberry Hill. He’d got the devil of a cheek: he kept a ladder on his side of the wall, and drove a staple into the brick-work on the other side, and used that to give him a leg-up over the wall. The tenants reported it to the police—the Sedgemoor Avenue tenants that is—but he was never caught, although I know he often used his short cut. I wondered if he’d used it again. He’d have had a latch-key to number 25, and so would Listelle, probably.”
“That’s jolly interesting,” said Reeves, his intelligent eyes very bright.
The warden looked rather worried: Reeves guessed he was a conscientious fellow, not given to careless gossip.
“I don’t want to give you a wrong impression,” said the warden. “You know how it is with these artist blokes, they seem queer fish to ordinary careful chaps like me, and I may be doing them an injustice. I didn’t like Stort, but Listelle was even nastier. I’d back him as the likelier of the two when it came to dirty work.”
“Anything solid to go on, or just a hunch?” asked Reeves.
“Just guess-work,” replied the other. “Stort was an obstinate, tiresome beggar, but Listelle was cunning—he’d always got an answer to everything, and he was plausible as they make ’em. I’ve just thought of something which might interest you. Listelle used to play darts up at that pub just off the High Street—the Green Dragon. He was a wonderful darts player I’m told. One of our fellows used to go there, and he said Listelle used to spin yarns about an old miser he knew—said he used to spend the nights counting up his treasure… It might be worth your while to go up there and see if you can get any information.”
“Good. I’ll follow that up,” said Reeves. “Is the chap who told you about it still at your post?”
“No. He was called up last year. He’s in Iceland I believe. Look here. I’m worried about this,” said the warden. “I’m telling you a lot of hearsay and guess-work, and come to think of it, you may be thinking I’m a bit too forthcoming with my suggestions. I suppose a warden, like me, might be said to have opportunities of house-breaking and all that.”
Reeves laughed. “Don’t you worry about that! I reckon you were on duty at the post between eight o’clock and ten last night.”
The warden grinned sheepishly. “Yes. I was. Thanks be for that.”
“O.K.,” said Reeves. “Now the chap who really interests me of these two is Stort, because you say he was the one who used to climb the Sedgemoor Avenue garden. You never heard of Listelle doing that?”
“No. I don’t think so. It was Stort the old lady mentioned, and I think she knew ’em by sight all right. I’d give a lot to know if he did come and climb that wall last night. In a way, it’d have been an easy job to do—and I can’t see how you can ever prove anything.”
“Well, to start with it’s a matter of finding Stort and asking him just what he was doing last night,” said Reeves.
“And if he’s faked an alibi?”
“It’s not nearly so easy to do as people believe,” said Reeves. “Most people break down under examination when they’re lying because it’s very difficult to lie consistently. However, no use counting one’s chickens. I’ve got to find him first.”
“Well, if I come across anyone who knows anything about him, I’ll let you know,” said the warden. “Our chaps do pick up a bit of gossip one way and another. I only hope I’m not setting you out on a wild-goose chase, because I don’t know anything against either of these chaps, except that Stort made free with the old lady’s garden, and Listelle spread rumours about old Folliner being a miser.”
“If nobody ever told us any ideas that came into their heads we should have a poor time in my job,” replied Reeves. “It’s chaps like you who’re willing to help who give me a chance. Any other ideas thankfully received.”
“Good! I’ll tell you if anything occurs to me,” replied the warden. “You see I’m particularly interested in this case of yours, because I’ve lived around here nearly all my life. My father had a house in Hollyberry Hill—one of those derelict ones at the Dayton Crescent end—and father knew old Folliner when he was a reasonable being. It’s true he was very well off at one time. He had a builder’s and decorator’s business and owned some property as well. I believe he had a reputation as a very hard man—he was down on his poorer tenants I believe, but he was respected. He paid his debts and was straight. It’s only of recent years he’s got so eccentric. Some people say he speculated and lost all his money, and that turned his head. Other people say he became miserly and hoarded it, but nobody knows for certain. I lived over the other side of Hampstead for some years, and lost sight of him. When I came back here I was amazed to learn he was still alive. He must be over ninety now, about the same age as my own father would have been had he lived. Think of it. 1850 to 1940. What a period to have lived through! Some folks say there’s been more change in the world in those hundred years than in the whole thousand years preceding. Progress? My hat! Do you call it progress?”
“Depends where you’re progressing to,” said Reeves. “Sometime these past two years I’ve thought human beings were making a bee-line for hell. If your dad passed out before the nineteen-forties, I reckon he was luckier than old Folliner.”
“I reckon he was,” said the warden fervently.