A tale comes to my mind, possibly true, probably false.
Guido, R. Browning.
George Fordham came into the inspector’s room with an unmistakable air of defiance. He threw his hat and gloves down on the table, and, in answer to Woods’s request that he would sit down, he flung himself into the chair drawn up at the side of the desk, and turned his eyes towards Woods with a sort of unfriendly boldness that at once aroused hostility.
He was a tall, thin, dark young man, with cadaverous cheeks and a certain raffish air, resembling a tousled hawk.
At the moment, his appearance was not improved by a strip of plaster which ran from the corner of his mouth up towards his ear, giving him a somewhat piratical appearance.
Seeing the inspector looking inquisitively at this decoration, Fordham began at once—in an aggressively flippant tone:
“Sorry I look such a disreputable person, Inspector. All this fuss, and the liquid support I had to give myself to bear up last night, made my hand a bit unsteady this morning. Gave myself a baddish cut. Had to get our local sawbones to patch me up. Yes, he’ll tell you all about it”—quickly, seeing the sceptical look which Woods could not prevent from crossing his face, though he instantly tried to repress it—“I’ve not been scrapping with my wife, or having plates thrown at me. So you needn’t look so disgusted and high-minded. Anyone’s at liberty to cut himself, shaving.”
Anxious as he was to avoid any preconceived prejudice, the inspector realized that in this man he was going to find no friendliness or co-operation.
Laying his notebook in front of him, he prepared to listen and question. But before he could start:
“Well, Inspector,” went on his visitor provocatively, “I suppose this is going to be a miserable affair?”
“It’s a very unhappy one, certainly, Mr. Fordham,” retorted Woods drily.” The murder of an elderly gentleman, and, I gather, your only near relative, is bound to cause you a good deal of trouble.”
He paused, for George Fordham burst at once into a loud, harsh laugh.
“Trouble! Well, yes, trouble in one sense, Inspector, but not in another. I’m not going to make any pretences at all. I dare say you’d see through them if I did,” he added insolently. “My uncle was no sort of use to me when he was alive. Treated me damned badly. There was no love lost between us, I can tell you. And I’m not going to pretend that I feel any sorrow for his death. I shan’t be troubled by his loss in that sense! But I suppose you’re going to give me a lot of bother over it all, that I can foresee for myself. I’m going to be a busy man now, too, I can tell you, so let’s get on with it. You’ve a whole pack of questions you want to put me, I imagine.”
Seeing that no sympathy or tact need be expended on George Fordham, Woods came at once to the point.
“Very well, Mr. Fordham, I’ll be glad of any information you can give me with regard to your uncle’s way of life and his associates.”
“Precious little I can tell you. He and I didn’t hobnob. I don’t suppose I set foot in his flat more than once a year. His friends weren’t mine, either, I can tell you. He’d an old crony—a Major Anstruther—whom he saw fairly often, I believe. And he saw that doctor fellow opposite pretty regularly. Otherwise he’d no men friends or acquaintances that I know of. I suppose it’s men you’re after, isn’t it?”
The glance which accompanied this remark startled Woods. There was a malevolence, a slyness about it, which cast light on George Fordham’s disposition at any rate.
“Yes, sir, you’re right. I want to try and account for every man, known to Mr. Ewing, who might have visited his flat, and whom he would readily have admitted.”
“H’m, yes. I realized all that,” replied Fordham. “I’m no fool, you know, Inspector, whatever else I may be! That nurse being out, the old man would have opened the door himself.”
“Might have done so,” corrected Woods. “There are other possibilities.”
Fordham stared. “Do you mean that the man might have been hidden in the flat before the nurse went out?”
Woods, however, refused to say what was in his mind. “We needn’t discuss that now, sir. What I want you to give me, if you can, is a list of Mr. Ewing’s friends—as far as you can give me one. Was he, for example, in the habit of having people come to see his collection? Other people interested in it, I mean, collectors, dealers, and so on?”
George shook his head. “No. He was a sour old fellow, and didn’t fraternize with other old birds. He was too jealous. Didn’t like people to know what he’d got, and didn’t want to hear them boast about what they’d got.”
“But you took people up there to see the jade—so I understand?”
For a moment George looked nonplussed.
“Took people up?”
“Yes. Mr. Godfrey told me you took him up on one occasion.”
“Yes, I did. And that was about the one and only time! Godfrey’s a friend of mine, so, of course, that was enough to put the old man off. Said he didn’t want to be brought into contact with his neighbours either—Godfrey is Mrs. Dutton’s nephew, you know. So I never took anyone else.”
“What about the people he bought his things from?”
“Don’t know anything about that. I know he always dealt with one special firm, who bought for him. I imagine his lawyer, or his banker, knows. I didn’t really take any interest myself in the collection or anything to do with it. A damned waste of money, I always thought it!”
“Well,” said Woods patiently, “then you really can’t tell me anything more on that point?”
A defiant nod from George.
“Then, sir, we come to the next point. You realize, of course, I must ask you where you yourself were, yesterday evening, between the hours of four and six? A matter of routine we must go through.”
Fordham grinned maliciously. “Shall it be a too perfect alibi, Inspector, or will you do without one?”
Woods making no answer to this sally, he went on: “Well, I haven’t got an alibi at all. I was at my office—141B Great Queen Street—until a quarter-past five o’clock. Then, as usual, I came home, travelling by tube. It was, as you know, the rush hour. I didn’t see anyone I knew on my way back. I got home at about 5.45. I didn’t go into my own flat, for I met the man from the next door flat as I was going up the stairs—we don’t rise to a lift in our buildings. He asked me to go in and have a smoke and a drink, so I did. I stayed in there talking to him, and so I never heard the telephone going in our own flat. My wife had been rung up from the Dutton’s, and she had heard all about the murder, but she didn’t know I was in next door, and didn’t know how to get hold of me. I went back in to our place about seven, expecting a meal then. Didn’t get one though. She was all done in by the news of the affair, and in the end I had to take her out and get a meal at the nearest place before I went off to my uncle’s flat.”
“This friend can, of course, corroborate your story?”
“Of course.” Again that insolent grin.
“Had your wife been in all the evening?”
“As far as I know. She was there, anyway, when Henry Godfrey rang up at about half-past six. She answered the phone, and says he didn’t want to tell her, at first, what was wrong. She got the wind up—she knew from the way he spoke there was something up—and thought it might have been an accident to me, as I wasn’t back. So he had to tell her. She was in a frightful state about it. Tender-hearted, you know. More so than I am!”
He stopped, and surveyed Woods with a truculent air.
“Who have you at your office?” inquired Woods, calmly. “Have you anyone who can confirm your statement that you left at five o’clock?”
“No, no one. I’m a free-lance, inspector—work on my own. I’ve an agency for a floor-covering, and I get an office and my expenses out of it—precious little else. I don’t run to a staff—or even an office boy.”
“Is there a porter, or commissionaire, at your office buildings?”
“Oh yes; there’s a fellow who works the lift, but he wasn’t about—often isn’t—and I worked it myself.”
A brief silence. Fordham’s expression hardened. “You know as well as I do, Inspector, a man can’t prove his whereabouts at a moment’s notice. I’ll inquire amongst my friends, and see if any of them noticed me on my way home. But I didn’t notice them, and I don’t suppose I’ll have any luck. I’ve had rotten luck all my life,” he went on, with a spurt of resentment, “and it’s going to stay rotten, I should say. My old uncle dies, and I hope I’m going to be comfortably provided for, but of course that’s to be complicated by an alibi, and the hell of a lot of trouble.”
“I’m sorry, of course, sir,” said Woods, more stiffly than ever; “but at the same time, I clearly must ask you to obtain corroboration of your statement. As to any progress we make in our investigation, of course you’ll be kept informed.”
Fordham, who, if he regretted the bad impression he had obviously made, showed no signs of repentance, rose to go, with a very lowering face.
“Well, I’ll do what I can, but it’s for you, you know, to make a case, not for me to disprove it!” and with that last glint of bravado he went.
Woods spoke down the telephone. “That you, Curtis? Set on foot inquiries into Mr. George Fordham’s occupation. He tells me he’s an agent for floorcloth. Address, 141B Great Queen Street. Find out everything you can about his finances, and about his friends, and, of course, anything about his movements yesterday. Right.”
Putting down the receiver, he meditated a moment. He had been definitely antagonized by Fordham. “That man’s a wrong un,” he thought to himself. “Heartless as they’re made; not a word of pity for that poor old uncle, not a mention of the circumstances. Sneering at his wife for showing a little feeling. Only thinking of himself, and any possible disadvantages to his position. I don’t like him. And we’ll keep a strict eye upon him. Wonder what sort of a wife he’s got?”
With the reflection that she too might be interviewed, and realizing he had a heavy day before him, Woods dismissed his musings, and turned to the first name on his list.
“‘Beatrice Edwards.’ Well, now, she ought to be important. She might have something to tell if she’s calmed down at all by now.” And eager to obtain any glimpses of light that might be shed on the events of the preceding night, he put on his hat and, going out of the station, bade the police car, which was waiting for him, drive to the address at which the nurse was to be found.
Poor Nurse Edwards, sitting up in bed to receive her official visitor, looked more worn and haggard by daylight than she had done the night before. The hours which had passed had only brought to her fuller realization of the fact that she had actually seen the murderer, might have stopped him, and had failed to do so.
“But, you see, sir,” she almost pleaded, as Woods took her briefly over the events of the preceding night, “I was feeling so ill. I’d had a bad fall, and I’d been badly shaken, and having my hand stitched at the hospital upset me. I felt all dazed and giddy, and going up the stairs made me feel faint. I didn’t really take in what I saw, and somehow, having Mr. Godfrey come in with me, and seeing that other man, just muddled me. I can’t explain properly, but I sort of confused the two, and thought the other was a friend of Mr. Godfrey’s.”
Looking at her bandaged head and arm, at her ashy face and heavily ringed eyes, the inspector could not find it in his heart to be hard on her. He knew well enough that with her really lay the responsibility for the murderer’s escape. Godfrey was not an intimate friend, he was barely an acquaintance of Mr. Ewing’s. Going into the flat as a formality, he had left it to the nurse, who was presumably familiar with her employer’s friends, to speak to the stranger. The fact that Nurse had looked at the man, had said nothing, but had allowed him to depart, was, in one sense, peculiar, in another, quite comprehensible. If she were really suffering from the effects of her accident, she too must be exonerated, fatal as the result of her inaction had been.
“How did you come to be hurt?” inquired Woods, really chiefly to give himself time while he summed up the personality of this witness.
“I was crossing the road at the corner of Clevedon Street and Warr Street, on my way to the shops, sir,” she began, relieved to be spared, even if only for a moment, the recalling of the scene in the flat, “and just by the chemist’s shop a bicyclist came along, riding very fast, and he just seemed to crash straight into me, and over I went, and fell right on to the edge of the kerb-stone.”
“At the corner of Warr Street,” meditated Woods aloud. “Why, there’s a big arc light there. The man ought to have seen you all right.”
“Why, yes!” replied Nurse. “He couldn’t help but see me. I saw him, coming along in the middle of the road. I thought he’d be well past before I crossed, so I stepped off the pavement and started off quite slowly, and he seemed to swerve, all of a sudden, and be right on top of me before I could get back.”
Woods stared at her, transfixed. An idea had come flashing into his mind. Perhaps this was not an ordinary accident? The road, he knew for himself, was extremely well lighted at that corner. The nurse’s account visualized for him a man deliberately altering his course in order to knock the woman down. A fast cyclist could do quite a lot of damage. The woman was bound to be hurt, and to be detained. That chemist’s shop, too, was handy.
“Who picked you up, and where did you go?”
“Some people passing by helped me up. I’d struck my head, and it was bleeding. They took me in to the chemist. He did first aid, but said I wanted stitching, and I’d better go to the hospital. So he called a taxi and I went there.”
Again Woods pondered. He felt that incident was premeditated. It was essential for the murderer to gain access to the flat while the nurse was out. He would need as much time as possible. An accident of this sort would effectively detain her. A bicycle was an excellent instrument, for it could inflict quite severe minor injuries, and at the same time, unlike a car, would not be easily identified.
Did you notice the man at all, before the machine hit you?
No, sir; he was riding with his head down, bent over the bars, and it was raining. I hadn’t more than a glimpse of him as he hit me and over I went.”
“Had you your umbrella up?”
“No, sir; I had it with me, but I’d just put it down as I meant to go into a shop on the other side of the street, and didn’t want to have it up while I crossed.”
“You couldn’t see his face at all?”
“No, sir; he’d his hat well down on his head, and it was all done so quickly.”
“Wasn’t he hurt? Didn’t he stop at all?”
“No, sir; he came down, of course, but as far as I know he jumped on his bike again and went straight off. I didn’t see, but the people who came and picked me up said so. They said they shouted after him, but he never turned at all—just went off.”
A variety of thoughts flashed through Woods’s mind.
That the accident was no accident he felt sure. Had it also been collusive? Was the nurse concerned in the murder? It was possible that all was arranged with some confederate, that he had watched until she came out, that he had deliberately run her down, so that she would be detained and the field left clear for him for at least an hour, but that only minor injuries were inflicted, nothing which would do any serious damage but enough to give her a convincing alibi.
Concealing these suspicions, and not stopping to consider them now, for he felt this aspect must be pondered over at leisure, he decided to leave for the moment the question of the accident, and to see whether he could glean anything in other directions.
“Then you were away from the flat possibly for an hour—or longer?”
“Yes. I left just after four, and I got back about a quarter-past five.”
Again Woods was startled. Times had been run very fine in this affair.
“You went up at a quarter-past five. How do you know that was the time?”
“I looked at my watch to see how late I was. I knew Mr. Ewing would be very vexed. I ought to have been back at half-past four.”
“You rang, but no one answered?”
The nurse nodded, her cheeks growing very pale.
“So you went down to Mrs. Dutton?”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t too badly hurt to walk up the stairs and down again by yourself?”
“Oh, no! I wasn’t seriously hurt, you know. Only enough to knock me up a bit.”
“I see.” The inspector paused. Then: “Well, now,” he said briskly, aware that he could get no further from Nurse herself for the present on this point, “tell me something else. What gentlemen, or which work people, were in the habit of coming to the flat?”
Seeing her hesitation, he added: “This is just something we have to test, you know. We think that perhaps Mr. Ewing opened the door, and we want to know, first of all, who were the people he’d be likely to let in.”
“Why, anyone who came, I suppose,” was the reply, in rather a blank voice. “When I was out Mr. Ewing had to open the door himself. The flat was a service one, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” said Woods patiently; “but we don’t think it altogether likely that Mr. Ewing would have let in a total stranger. Not with such a valuable collection in the house, you know, not to speak of the jewellery.”
The look of complete amazement that came to Nurse Edwards’s face enlightened the inspector on one point.
“Valuable jewellery?” She voiced her lack of comprehension. “Do you mean those rings and links he wore? He wouldn’t bother to keep people out because of them.”
Woods looked at her searchingly. “Did Mr. Ewing wear a ring, then?”
“Why, yes”—with increasing bewilderment—“he always wore two, one on each hand. One was a great big diamond, like you see some men wear—business men as a rule—and the other was a queer sort of signet ring, with a green stone, carved. He told me once that was more valuable even than the very big diamond, something to do with the carving on it, he said.”
“Was it an antique?” inquired Woods.
“Why, yes, that was what he said. I remember now that was the word he used. ‘It’s antique and unique.’ That was what he told me, he was so proud of it.”
Like many nervous people, she now began to cover up her nervousness by a flow of talk, and Woods, thinking something might come of it, let her run on.
“He never took them off, during the day that is, for he was so particular about them, and I’ve never really seen him up and about without them. And he’d some lovely links too—jade they were, like the stuff in his cabinets only brighter, like real emeralds. But I don’t think he was nervous. I don’t think he’d have been afraid to let anyone in. Whether he’d have wanted to do so, I don’t know. He didn’t care for visitors, and if I were out he’d often tell me he shouldn’t answer if anyone did come—not that visitors came, but sometimes there were tradespeople, and the laundry and so on. And he wouldn’t have the flat left alone, for he said he didn’t want people coming in when he wasn’t there—the window cleaners, and people from the hotel, you know. But I should have said that was just the kind of disposition he had—not any fear of thieves—just fussiness and love of having his own way.”
“Well,” said Woods, “of course his collection was all insured, and we don’t really think this man came for that, nor for anything to do with it. No, we think perhaps he was after the rest of the jewellery, all the good stuff he had.”
Nurse Edwards merely looked at him, all astonishment, if her looks spoke truth.
“I mean,” continued Woods, “the really very valuable things he had—the property of his late wife, which he kept in that black japanned box. It’s valued at nearly £20,000, you know, and it has been in the flat for some time.”
If he meant to startle, apparently he succeeded. Nurse looked at first stunned, then appalled, and then burst into tears.
“Well, I never knew. I never even saw a black box or anything. I don’t go poking about. He never told me, and I don’t think it right to keep stuff like that in a house. It’s just asking for trouble, and tempting people to come in!”
“Yes,” said Woods briefly, “he’d have done better to keep it at his bank, poor old man, as you say. Now, are you sure you never saw a black tin box about the place—about twenty inches by twelve?”
“Quite sure,” said Nurse, trying to recover herself.” I never, of course, looked in the cupboards or drawers, and I never saw it about. He never had it out as long as I’ve been there. I’m quite sure of that.”
“You can swear to these rings you say he wore?”
“Why, yes, I’ve had them in my hands several times, giving them to him when he was dressing in the morning. He used to put them on his washstand shelf at night.”
“They’re not on the list of what was found,” said Woods significantly. “They’re missing, and another big solitaire diamond ring too. Know anything about that?”
“What’s a solitaire ring?” asked Nurse doubtfully.
“Just the one largish diamond, set by itself—and a great big one this was too,” returned Woods, glancing at his typewritten list. “Not his own gentleman’s ring, you understand. One of his wife’s, in fact, and one of her best.”
The nurse shook her head. “I never saw one like that in the flat,” she said. “Nor ever heard him speak of his wife’s jewellery, I’m sure. He had the two rings I’ve told you of, but one was a big, square, green stone, all carved, and the other was a single stone, a diamond. But that’s not the one you mean?”
“No,” replied Woods. “There were two solitaire diamonds, one a man’s, one a lady’s. The rings were on the insurance list, and easily identifiable. Both Mr. Ewing’s and the lady’s are, so far, missing.
“However, let’s hope the man took them,” he added quite cheerfully. “That will give us one clue, anyway. Something to look for, and we’ve need of that.”
Further questions only confirmed the evidence given by Godfrey. The stranger had only been seen by Nurse from the back. She never saw his face. She judged him to be a gentleman, tall, fairly slim, no one she knew. “But then,” she explained, “I’d not been with Mr. Ewing very long, less than a couple of months, and, except for the lawyer and Dr. Ainslie, there hadn’t been any gentlemen call at the flat. It wasn’t either of them.”
“Did you know Mr. George Fordham?”
No, she did not. He’d never been to the flat, though Mrs. George had.
Gloomily satisfied that identification was impossible, Woods finally left her, with a recommendation to remain in bed and get as much rest as she could.
He felt he had a good deal to digest in the information he had collected, but, at the moment, his chief feeling was one of disgust.
“Good heavens!” he thought, as he set out on his return to the office. “Just to think! Three people saw that man, saw him close—and none of them can identify him, or give us a decent description. The man’s seen leaving the place practically red-handed, and it’s no real use to us whatsoever. We’ve just to fall back on the old routine methods, motives—alibis—records—and I trust we’ll come across something—plain routine once more.”
The future, however, held more than plain routine for the inspector.