The news stunned. Bream stared hard, uncertain whether to be pleased or the reverse.
The Inspector asked, “Does that description tally with your man?”
“It does. There can’t be two of ’em. How is it you’ve not collared him?”
“Obstacles,” said the Inspector tersely. “In main a general conspiracy to discredit this statement since it was given out by a man since charged with robbing the till. I myself took little stock of it till I caught your remark. I was inclined to share the Dutch police’s view that the assistant wanted to revenge himself by representing his employer as a rogue—which undoubtedly is the case. The old man’s excuse for not recognising the jewels was that he’d broken his spectacles and couldn’t see properly. That went also for his uncertainty as to the chap’s appearance. Still, his word was given preference, and while they were chasing various men our Indian slipped away. Haji, you said? That ought to prove a substantial help.”
“Abdulmajid Haji when he’s at home,” pronounced Bream woodenly. “And a fat lot of good may it do you. He booked passage for Bombay last Wednesday. I got word of it too late to do anything except hike down to Tilbury. I was just in time to see the boat steam out.”
“No matter,” broke in Headcorn eagerly. “Wednesday last? Boat called at Marseilles. Did you wireless the captain?”
“I did. And here’s the reply.”
From his pocket Bream fished up a Marconigram. Headcorn seized it, and read:
“Abdulmajid Haji went ashore before sailing failed to return luggage aboard but no passenger.”
Across the two tall glasses of ale the two exchanged cheated glances.
“So you see,” said Bream dryly, “we have a second queer character vanishing at the very moment he’s shown himself queer.”
“Vanishing?” Headcorn hurled the word at him. “On this island? No fear! Two days, and I’ll have him locked up.”
“Great!” murmured the private agent. “With the Yard on the job we can expect some action.”
“Sarcasm, eh? Call it an empty boast?”
“Not at all. I was only thinking that this secretary woman still seems to be holding out on you. I happened too, to be running my eye over the rather formidable list of missing persons for the past year and realising just how easy this disappearing act must be. At the same time, you people have all the facilities when it comes to drawing a drag-net. I’m only too glad to count on your assistance, for I don’t mind telling you unless we can lay hands on this Indian and Elsie Dilworth my accused won’t stand a dog’s chance.”
Headcorn, preoccupied, turned a slow eye on him. It reminded Bream of a mechanical eye worked on a swivel, the dull glaze of which fascinated but chilled.
“And when they’re found?” came the shrewd query. “Think it will help? Only if one of them confesses—which you can hardly expect. We may find in one or both a link to connect these two crimes, but that’s not saying Somervell isn’t guilty. Yes, on both counts. Dilworth may well have tipped him off with what she overheard. Had you thought of that?”
“Dilworth? When it was she supplied the information?”
“Information be damned! We don’t know what private row may have changed her attitude towards Somervell. As for this Haji, I can think of several ways in which he and Somervell may have been in league. Haji may have an excellent reason for disappearing. Will he want to be named as an accessory?”
Bream strongly disliked the way the conversation was tending. Uneasily, he thought of his unsuccessful efforts to uncover the mess Haji had been involved in over the girl’s death in his rooms, of his fear lest Somervell, a doctor, might be implicated in it. Haji’s pointed notice of Somervell in the tea-shop suggested an acquaintance the American was unwilling to admit in his fiancée’s presence. The Yard, he well knew, would not share his scruples.
“Blundell’s secretary,” pursued the Inspector relentlessly, “may be a menace to both Somervell and Haji. Put her in the witness-box and who knows what she’ll spill? Maybe it’s Haji she’s terrified into hiding. As a matter of fact, she may be dead.”
“There seems to be about a million ‘maybes’ in each of these cases,” retorted Bream stoically. “We can only stick to our separate lines and hope for the best.”
“With this difference,” put in the older man. “Your business is to overthrow the charge against Somervell. Mine’s to locate Miss Fairlamb’s murderer, whoever he may be; but if we clash?”
“You mean shall I regret this purely informal discussion? Never, Inspector! If the worst happens, I suppose Somervell would as soon swing for two murders as one. They’ll have to prove the existing charge first before the other, hinging on it, can be preferred against him. Don’t lose sight of that.”
The eye swivelled again. It seemed to say that Bream was optimistic indeed if he doubted Somervell’s conviction.
“You believe in him, do you? Don’t tell me it’s not in Somervell’s nature to commit cold-blooded murder. That’s an old one.”
“I know little about Dr. Somervell’s nature,” declared Bream with dignity. “I’m basing my belief on small points which, I admit, aren’t likely to convince a jury. For instance, it will be assumed that Somervell induced the victim to make a will in his favour. If he did that, was it common sense to kill her off within two days of the said will being executed? Why didn’t he allow a discreet interval to elapse?”
“While he waited,” objected Headcorn, “she might have destroyed the will. The chances are she would have done, if it went counter to her wishes and she got courage to consult her solicitor. Besides, death by aconite was likely to be set down to natural causes. The person using it would have known that. If doubt did arise, there was only a remote chance of solid residue remaining in the system, the tendency being for the violent vomiting and diarrhoea to eliminate every trace. I can suggest, in addition, a potent reason for haste—pressing need of funds. Whatever the delay in securing the entire inheritance, the legatee could have obtained at once an advance.”
“I’ve not discovered any pressing need.”
“There may have been one, all the same. But your next point?”
“The absence of proof that Somervell knew a will had been drawn up.”
“And have you contrary proof? No, I thought not. The victim may have conveyed the information to him when she issued the invitation to that Sunday lunch.”
“You consider it likely?” Bream retorted. “I don’t.”
“She was an old woman and a vain one,” said his companion coolly. “I could tell you dozens of cases where women like her have kept prospective legatees dancing attendance on them simply by jiggling a will before their eyes. Then there’s blackmail. . . .”
“Blackmail? How do you account for her getting the will executed by her own legal adviser and personal friend? Wouldn’t a man like Blundell have scented blackmail as a terrier does a rat? He’d even have spotted the least nervousness on her part. No, if Rose Somervell dreaded any exposure, she’d have called in a strange lawyer, or, better still, bought a regulation form and done the thing without assistance.”
Headcorn grunted, and Bream warmed to his subject. “To my mind, that constitutes the strongest argument in Somervell’s favour. Blundell’s no fool. He’s an exceedingly sharp lawyer, employed by such people as the Duke of Duxborough, Lord Limpsfield, and our new ministerial prodigy, Sir Norbury Penge. He was, moreover, deeply attached to Mrs. Somervell.”
“How deeply?”
“Ah, you’ve got that private staircase on your mind! No?”—as Headcorn brushed the suggestion aside. “Well, then, as far as I can find out about the relationship, they were more like brother and sister than the other thing. Thicker than thieves. I’d like to think differently, but I can’t.”
“So you have tried to upset the platonic theory?”
“Naturally. Blundell is suspect. He could have done the deed, and planted the aconite on Somervell afterwards. But why? I’m hanged if I can see. There was no sign of even a disagreement between him and the victim. She was jealous, but of whom? Why, the secretary—as ill-favoured a woman as you’d meet in a day’s walk. One look at the females Blundell employs would tell you he’s not much of a lady’s man. Another thing. At one time it seems that Mrs. Somervell intended leaving her money to him. If she changed her mind, it was only because she realised the absurdity of it. He must have far more than she left.”
“Did she actually make a will in Blundell’s favour?” asked Headcorn, taking from his pocket a well-seasoned briar and carefully stoking it.
“Apparently not. I mention it merely to show that Blundell, if he wanted to inherit her small fortune, would surely have tried to dissuade her from the course she finally took. His influence with her was undoubtedly strong. I agree with Miss Lake that he must have been more or less complaisant, or the will in question would never have been made.”
“I hear she struck various persons as slightly befogged, just at the last. Know anything about it?”
“I’ve talked with her own doctor, Sir Eustace Milford. He declares when he last met her, at some reception soon after her Vichy cure, she was at the top of her form. The condition you refer to—absent-mindedness, coupled with a tendency to doze off after meals—may have had to do with overeating and sedentary habits. It’s fairly certain she didn’t drug, and no one even faintly suggested her incompetence to make a will.”
Headcorn bestirred himself, and motioned to the waitress.
“Well, well, we’d better cook up our joint description of the Indian, and call it a day. I’m taking a taxi to the Yard. Shall I drop you?”
At Great Smith Street they parted, Bream well pleased to think that in exchange for unimportant confidences he was to receive valuable aid toward the trapping of Haji. The Inspector, on the small remnant of the drive, performed for the third time the act of putting his fingers against his nose and snuffing hard.
“Cloves,” he mused. “Stuff used for toothache. Even machine oil can’t kill the smell. Her bottle. Was it she who oiled those bolts and the lock? In that close atmosphere it was the first thing that struck me—oil of cloves . . .”
Entering the block of dingy dark buildings, he reported at once to his chief, apprising him of the turn matters had taken, and laying on the desk his detailed description of Abdulmajid Haji. The big man read it through, raised his brows, and without a word handed Headcorn a paper on which was written a single line. The Inspector scanned it, jumped, and smothered an oath.
“Good God, sir! When did this come through?”
“An hour ago, by telephone. It is certainly your Indian. As you see, he’s been found in a ditch near Tilbury, with a pearl-handled ladies’ revolver in his hand, and his brains blown all over the place.”