CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Inspector Combridge left the court with a cheerful expression, not wishing his opponents to know how worried he really felt. He had seen that if he should get a committal, he would have much to do to complete his case to a point at which a jury’s conviction would become tolerably certain, but that was a difficulty which he was used to meet, and to overcome.

But if Mr. Garrison should refuse to commit the accused man, it would be a rebuff to the police for which he would have the major responsibility. And he could not conceal from himself that it was becoming more than a possibility. It was not only that one of the two witnesses to the event which he had produced had been disclosed as a convict now actually under the sentence of the law, and the other as a woman who had been bitterly seeking revenge on the murdered man. More or less, he had been prepared for that, though he had not anticipated that Miss Weston’s cross-examination would have developed quite as it had done. But he had discussed these difficulties with Mr. Dunkover, and they had agreed in considering them to be surmountable obstacles.

That which disturbed him most was the offensive confidence with which the eminent counsel secured by Peter Entwistle’s ill-acquired money were conducting the defence: the talk of witnesses whose identity he could not guess, but who were to be brought forward to his confusion.

He saw that the defence must have some weapon in their armoury of the nature of which he was unaware, and that was worse than to be confronted by a difficulty, however great, which he could measure and understand.

He met Mr. Dunkover leaving the court, and saw a man as professionally unruffled, and inwardly almost as perturbed as himself. Mr. Dunkover also looked defeat in the face, and recognized that it would be attributed in legal circles to the abilities of the opposing counsel. Everyone knew (it would be said) that Dunkover was no match for Huddleston—and with Pippin against him also!

But if he feared the result, he was no less resolute to put up the best fight he could, and he pointed out what he thought to be a gleam of light on an otherwise darkened sky.

“You’ll find,” he said, “that Garrison won’t be disposed to discharge the prisoner before he’s gone into the box, and when we have him there, you never know what we may get him to say. If we’d been in this position before the date when accused men were allowed to give evidence on their own behalf, I should have said it looked a good deal worse than it does now.... Of course, Garrison knows that you wouldn’t have put the man in the dock unless you’d been pretty sure that he’d fill the bill, and he’ll give you every chance that he fairly can.”

“Yes,” the Inspector agreed, “I should say we can depend on him for that, but I wish I knew a bit more as to what their witnesses are going to say. You don’t think there’s any real doubt that we’ve got the right man this time?”

“I don’t think the murder was done by either Hammerton or the young lady, if you mean that. I think they’re both telling a straight tale, and, if so, the more they’re attacked, the better we shall come off in the end, especially when we’ve got a jury to deal with.... But the trouble is that their evidence doesn’t go quite as far as it should, and Bigland’s hardly makes it up to a full weight.... But as to whether you’ve got the right man, I should say you’ve made a good guess, and if he didn’t do it himself, he probably knows who did.... Well, it’s no use worrying. I’ve been on a worse road before now, and got home in the end.”

Inspector Combridge must take what comfort he could, which was not much, from that guarded reply. If he had got the wrong man for the second time, he was likely to live in the records of Scotland Yard in a way which he had not anticipated, and certainly did not desire. He looked round for Francis Hammerton, to whom he had wished to speak, having a vague hope that, in his search for those who could support the plea of his own innocence, he might hear something of that in which he was less directly concerned, but Francis had already gone.

He had slipped away the moment that Mr. Garrison left the bench, fleeing to his unknown room from a publicity the extent and consequences of which he feared, but was unable to judge.

Had he stayed, he would have been able to tell nothing to the Inspector’s comfort or his own advantage, for the weekend had been spent in abortive search for more than one of his old acquaintances who had left the city. He had gained no more than an increasing realization that the ways of the amateur detective are not easy to tread, and had resigned himself to the conclusion that he must succeed in getting in touch with Augusta Garten, or return to the prison walls from which he was so shortly and precariously set free. And even if he should see her again, who could guess what she would be likely to do or say?

If he had any comfort of mind for this night, it was in recalling the voice of a girl who had said, with a confidence very pleasant to hear: “I thought Mr. Hammerton was an innocent and most unfortunate man.” But, unfortunately for him, Miss Weston was not one of the Judges of the Appeal Court.

He spent the evening in watching for a postman who did not come, having a faint hope that Miss Garten might answer by that time, and he left his room an hour before that at which breakfast could be obtained in the morning, seeking for a letter on the hall-table, and was only aware how faint his expectation had really been when he saw an envelope of the familiar mauve, addressed in Augusta’s bold but insubordinate hand—for Miss Garten’s handwriting had the curious quality that while it had its own regularity, it would decline to conform to the size of the paper on which she wrote.

He took the letter back to his own room before opening it, which cost him a needless climb up three flights of stairs, to be descended again in haste, for what he read was this:

DEAR HAROLD,

Why such a filthy trick? If I had not known your writing, I should have refused it, of course.

Not that there is any reason, but no one likes to be caught in a mug’s trap.

Call up Ellerton 6603 within a quarter of an hour of when you get this, and we’ll have a few words.

A. G.

He had discretion enough to avoid the telephone in the hall, and went out to seek a street instrument, which he found in three minutes of brisk walking. He rang up the number mentioned, and heard Augusta Garten’s voice answering.

“You needn’t tell me who you are,” she said quickly. “I know that well enough. You know the restaurant in the side-street off Piccadilly, where we met once or twice before? There’s no need to mention it, if you do.

“If you go there about seven tonight, and straight upstairs, and come in at the second door on the right, you may find me there, or you mayn’t. It depends.

“But look here, Harold, you mustn’t mention to anyone that you’ve rung me up, or that I’m going to see you again. I don’t mean who you think. I mean anyone. Just what I say. Promise? Very well. It’ll be your loss if you do.

“That’s enough now. You’re certain you know the place? I’ve no time to chat.”

He had no time to thank her before she had rung off, leaving him to puzzle out what these instructions might mean.

Her letter, though it had no address at its head, certainly implied that she was not in hiding, and had nothing to fear from the police, to whom she had also alluded plainly enough when she had said, “I don’t mean who you think.” And to give a telephone number is to give a means by which you may be as quickly and certainly traced as by the fullest postal address.

She had told him to ring her up within fifteen minutes of getting the letter, and that was also significant of her wish for secrecy. She could not have known within an hour at what time the letter would come to his hands. The narrow margin of time must have been intended to secure as far as possible that he would have no opportunity of talking to others before she could gain his promise of silence. And even on the phone, she had been quick enough to prevent him giving his name, and the appointment had been made in such a way that anyone who had been listening in would not know within half a square mile where it was that they were arranging to meet.... If she were not avoiding the police, on which point he may be excused a doubt, it was evident that she had some most urgent reason for meeting him in a private manner.

Well, he must wait, with what patience he could, and meanwhile he must return to the magistrates’ court, and watch the development of a drama in which it had seemed, a mere week ago, that he was to have been cast for the central part.

He found Inspector Combridge looking out for him as he entered the court. He had no wish either to treat him with lack of confidence or to break his promise to Augusta Garten, whether or not it had been the police she had had in mind. He had prepared himself against such an encounter, and said at once: “Don’t ask me now, but tomorrow morning I hope to have something to tell you,” and was relieved when the Inspector accepted that assurance, and hurried on, having other urgencies to distract his mind.