The manner that offends, the rude and rough.
Guido, R. Browning.
Making his way up Clevedon Street, Woods reflected how easily the owners of house property had adapted themselves to new conditions. These large, solid, old-fashioned houses were, not so long before, looked on as white elephants. Now, with the decrease in the number of maids kept by the ordinary householder, had come a revolution in the style of living. People wanted flats or maisonettes, run by one or at most two maids. In a residential neighbourhood such as this, there was an immense demand for this type of accommodation. Property owners had seized their opportunities, and the vast majority of these large houses were now divided up into three or more sets of flats, each bringing in a good rental. Clevedon Street had quite recently suffered transformation on these lines. An enterprising individual had bought up five or six of the houses on one side, whose leases had fallen in, and converted them. Bright paint, new doors, a general air of having started in life afresh, characterized them.
Dr. Ainslie had been one of those coming to take up their habitation in these new quarters. His plate was affixed to the door of one of the most recently decorated flats. His car, a smart new one, was drawn up before the kerb. When Woods was admitted to the house and shown into the waiting-room, he observed that everything within was in keeping. New curtains, new carpets, and, if he were not mistaken, new furniture, all seemed resplendent with freshness.
“H’m! Didn’t I hear he’d recently married?” meditated Woods, as, glancing from the window at the sound of the front door banging, he beheld a very smart and elegant young woman run down the steps and across the pavement, and get into the car.
As he stood watching her drive off, his gaze wandered across the street. He noticed that this flat, though not exactly opposite No. 5, commanded a good view of that front door.
He was recalled from his meditations by the entry of the maid into the room behind him. She came to tell him the doctor was free now, and would see him.
Woods found himself facing a man whose rather grim, tight-lipped face at first took him by surprise. Somehow, he had unconsciously visualized the owner of such fresh, bright quarters, and the husband of such a gay young woman, as likely to be a smiling and cheerful individual. His attention caught by the unexpected character of the man he now faced across the formal desk, he gave more study than he had anticipated to the personality with whom he now came in conflict.
For the doctor was in no accommodating mood. His blue eyes looked frostily at the inspector, his stiff attitude betokened no friendliness, and his voice was markedly cold as he inquired what was his visitor’s business.
Woods came to the point at once.
“I asked you to see me, Dr. Ainslie, because I understand you not only attended Mr. Ewing in the capacity of his medical man, but you also knew him personally as a friend.”
“That is so.” The doctor was not expansive.
“How long had you known him?”
“I have attended him for the past five years.”
“Mr. Ewing suffered from rheumatoid arthritis?”
“He did.”
“Was he able to walk about?” persevered Woods, determined not to let his growing annoyance get the better of his politeness.
“Yes, when he was not suffering from one of his bad attacks.”
“When did you last see him?”
“On the morning of the 20th.”
“The morning of the murder, that is to say?”
The doctor merely nodded.
“Was he in bed on that occasion?”
“He was.”
“But you instructed the nurse that he might get up that afternoon?”
“Yes.”
Woods really felt his patience wearing thin.
“Would he have been able to walk across the room?”
“Certainly he would.”
“Now, Dr. Ainslie, coming to your more personal relations with Mr. Ewing, did he ever discuss his private affairs with you?”
“No,” replied the doctor, “he did not.”
“Yet I understand you were one of the few friends he possessed?”
“I was one of his friends. I don’t know if he had few or many.”
“Did he ever mention to you the terms of his will?”
“‘No, certainly not.”
“Though he asked you to be one of the witnesses of it?”
This time the doctor’s frigid calm was broken. He looked faintly annoyed.
“Yes, that is so, of course. But he merely asked me to witness it, without going into any particulars as to its purport.”
” Quite so,” said Woods, feeling that he was not even beginning to get into touch with his companion. “But I believe Mr. Ewing did discuss one portion of his property with you? I mean, of course, his late wife’s collection of jewels.”
“Discuss isn’t quite the correct term, Inspector. Mr. Ewing happened to know I had been in Burma at the ruby mines. I had a post there for a while. He also knew that I took a general interest in precious stones, and have made a study of them. He showed me some very fine stones he himself possessed. I should say that is not at all what is meant by your phrase ‘discussing his property’?”
“Well,” said Woods patiently, “perhaps I expressed myself badly. What I wanted to know was whether you were in point of fact aware of the extent and value of this jewellery?”
” Oh yes. Mr. Ewing had consulted with me over the valuation made by the insurance company, and I had gone through every item of the list with him.”
“Would you agree with the estimate of the insurance company that the total value of the jewellery was £20,000?”
“I think that was a sound valuation for insurance purposes,” returned the doctor, determined to be noncommittal. “One or two of the items were perhaps worth rather more, in my estimation, but the total was near enough, and the premium high enough,” with a faint indication of unbending.
“I’m obliged to ask you, doctor,” went on Woods, with every effort to be conciliatory,” whether you spoke of this jewellery to other people?”
“I really couldn’t say,” returned the doctor coolly. “Mr. Ewing made no pretence of showing me the stones privately, as it were. I’m not, of course, in the habit of gossiping with all and sundry. On the other hand, I have certainly spoken of Mr. Ewing’s things to one or two experts—persons like myself who are interested in precious stones.”
“Such as?” queried Woods.
“Oh, a man I met at my club who is a dealer in rather a big way—and one of the men at the geological museum. I can’t call anyone else to mind at the moment.”
“Your wife, perhaps, has heard you speak of the matter?”
“Certainly she has. As I tell you, there was no secrecy in the matter whatever. And”—anticipating Woods’s next question—“I dare say it is possible she has mentioned it to her friends in her turn. If you are trying to discover from me who knew that Ewing possessed this jewellery, you now know as much as you’re likely to find out, Inspector.”
“You can’t, in short,” said Woods, keeping his temper, “give me any help in tracing how the knowledge of his having any jewellery, on the face of it unlikely in the case of a man, got about?”
“I’m not aware that such knowledge had got about, much less how it did so.”
Woods felt it useless to continue in the face of this obstructive attitude. He rose to go, believing he would do no good by prolonging the conversation, when, to his surprise, the doctor, apparently relenting as he saw Woods meant to pursue the matter no further, hesitated, glanced swiftly at the inspector, and then added suddenly:
“But I can tell you of one thing which may be of use to you.”
Woods paused expectantly.
“There was a fellow lurking about here on and off for a week or more before the murder.”
This was indeed news, and the inspector sat down again and listened intently.
The doctor, glancing at him again, as if to see the effect of his words, went on:
“I’m backwards and forwards here at various odd times of the day and night, and I’ve had occasion to notice this man loitering about the street, near my door, once or twice. One night I’d been called out rather late in the evening—I was back here with my car just on midnight—and I found a man leaning against my railings. I was going to ask him what he was up to when he moved off.”
“Can you describe him?”
“No, not very clearly. He wore an overcoat, and a soft hat. I’d say from his build he was youngish. Well dressed. I couldn’t see his face.”
“You saw him more than once in the neighbourhood?”
“Yes, I think I did,” rather slowly.
“When was that?”
“I think I saw him again on the late afternoon of the day of the murder itself, at about 4.30.”
Woods stared at him, petrified, as he reflected on the immense importance of this new statement.
Here was another prospect of obtaining a little more information. Was George Fordham hanging about and watching in the street at that hour? Would he have taken such a risk of being identified? Quick as a flash Woods saw that it was just possible for a reckless man to be daring enough. Fordham might be quite an unfamiliar figure to the doctor, in view of the bad terms on which he was with his uncle. It was essential to try to test Ainslie’s story.
Seeing the effect he had produced, the doctor went on, with a sort of grim relish, as if now he had once brought himself to speak he wished to show he had something after all worth saying: “I came home about 4.30 that day. It was very wet and these side streets were empty. I came round the corner of the road rather quickly, and as I shot round I thought I saw this same fellow lurking again in front of my door. Actually I was not coming to my own house. I meant to get in a call before tea to a patient living next door. The man moved along as I came up in my car and, I thought, went into the block I intended to visit.”
“Yes?” said Woods, quite eagerly, as the doctor paused.
“Well—that was all,” replied Ainslie coolly. “I went up to my patient’s flat, on the first floor, but there was no sign of anyone. I concluded that either I’d mistaken the house or it might have been someone looking for Mr. Hetherington—the artist, you know, who lives on the top floor there.”
Woods was silent for a moment. He must go warily.
“What time did you leave your patient?”
“Oh, I don’t exactly know,” carelessly. “I imagine I was there half an hour or so.”
“You saw no one about when you left?”
“No.”
“No one in the street? No one going in opposite?”
“No, no one.”
“Then you went—?” Woods paused expectantly.
“I went straight along back to my own home. I was having tea with my wife when Mrs. Godfrey came running across for me.”
“Now, this man you saw hanging about. Do you think he was anyone you had seen before? That is to say, elsewhere than in the street?”
Woods spoke with emphasis and waited eagerly for the reply.
When it came, however, he was disappointed.
“No, I’m pretty certain I’d never seen him. He didn’t strike me as anyone I’d ever seen before.”
“You say he walked away from you? His figure and build didn’t remind you of anyone?”
“No, no one,” impatiently.
“And I suppose he wasn’t any of the men living in the neighbourhood who were likely to be about here? Anyone you see going about this street?”
“Well, I’ve not lived in this street very long myself. I used to lived in Cannon Square, half a mile away. I only moved here a couple of months ago when these flats were constructed. I married then and wanted bigger quarters than my old ones. I’m not very familiar, therefore, with the inhabitants round about. But I’d never noticed the man before, and I certainly believe that I did see him on these two occasions, loitering about near my door, in the actual week before the murder—and, as of course you realize, on each occasion he was near Mr. Ewing’s house.”
Woods reflected. “Did you notice anything about his walk as he moved away?”
The doctor shook his head. “He went off rather quickly when my car drew up. I don’t think he expected me to turn up, and I came round the corner here rather fast. I’m certain he didn’t want me to see him. He made off the moment he saw my car stopping in front of the house.”
“Why didn’t you give the police this information earlier, Dr. Ainslie?” Woods asked abruptly.
The doctor’s face hardened once more, and he shrugged his shoulders.
“I expected you to ask that, Inspector. Well, I really didn’t feel it in the least necessary. I just noticed this fellow. I paid no special attention to him. I can’t describe him for you. Really I didn’t feel I’d anything of sufficient importance with which to waste your time and mine.”
The last words were uttered with emphasis. Woods felt they were meant to convey the impression that the doctor’s time was valuable—more so than his information. He was determined, however, not to be brow-beaten, and therefore spoke firmly.
“I think you must realize, Dr. Ainslie, that is not the view we should be likely to take. This is a case of murder. It is the duty of every citizen to give any information which may be of value to the police. It is for us to decide what is the exact value of anything we are told.”
Ainslie’s cheeks flushed, and he spoke angrily.
“I don’t consider it any part of my duty as a citizen to help to bring a man to the gallows.”
Woods looked at him in astonishment, then a sudden impulse apparently drove the doctor to explain his heat.
“I won’t conceal from you, Inspector, what my views are. I am one of those who disapprove of capital punishment.”
A silence followed. Then Woods spoke slowly.
“Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Dr. Ainslie. I can only repeat—the view of the police will be that you ought to have come forward with this information at once.”
The doctor, bright spots burning in his cheeks, merely stretched out his hand to press the bell. Either he repented of his outburst, or he felt Woods had shown considerable forbearance, for he suddenly drew it back, and, as the inspector picked up his hat and turned to go, Ainslie spoke once more, this time with obvious effort.
“I must beg your pardon, Inspector, if I have spoken too forcibly. I feel rather strongly, and I’ve perhaps allowed myself to be influenced by the views I hold. But I felt most reluctant to come forward and offer any information, though I decided to tell you what I had seen when you came to me with your inquiries.”
Woods felt unable to respond very cordially to this flag of truce. Indeed he was not altogether sure if it were meant to be one or not.
However, he did not really wish to antagonize this strange, forcible man, and in the effort to meet him half-way he bethought him of one other point he wished to ascertain.
“This artist you spoke of—Mr. Hetherington—can you tell me anything about him?”
“Why, yes, as it happens I can. I’ve run into him once or twice since this affair. He is a newcomer like myself. He only moved in a week ago. I’ve run across him once or twice since, and we’ve exchanged a few words. Naturally this affair in our road has made neighbours talk together rather more than one usually does.”
“You didn’t mention this man to him?”
“No, I did not,” rather briefly.
“Well, I shall have to see what he has to say. We may find, of course, that the man was a bona fide person known to Mr. Hetherington, and visiting him quite normally that evening.”
Woods turned to go, and as he did so he just caught a look which flashed across the doctor’s face as at last he rang the bell for the maid to show the inspector out.
“He doesn’t think so himself!” thought Woods, passing down the hall. His eye fell on a pile of letters, just come by the post, which the maid had been in the act of putting out on the hall table. As his keen eye fell upon them Woods recognized the type.
“A nice packet of bills coming in! Well, a new wife and a new home runs a man in for a good bit, I expect,” and, with the reflection that to be a bachelor perhaps had compensations, he went out into the streets, and began to sort out his impressions.
If this man had been seen by the doctor he might have been seen by others, some possibly who could give a better description than Dr. Ainslie had done. A house-to-house canvass of the street was indicated, and for that Woods could enlist the services of subordinates. He himself had other work to do.
Returning to his office, he sent for Riley, and briefly explained to him the result of his interview and the importance of the new development.
Riley, who was very shrewd in his own way, paused for a moment before departing on his errands, and said:
“Do you notice, sir, how all the men we come across in this case seem to be hard up? I’ve been getting all the information I could from the people at the hotel. The porter there knows all the gossip of the street. I’ve heard about Dr. Ainslie. He’s tried to cut too much of a dash, from all they say. Plunged pretty deeply when he moved in here and blossomed out. Then Mr. Godfrey. As you and I know, he’s hard pressed for cash—business bad, and all that. Mr. Fordham hasn’t a bean to bless himself with—or hadn’t till now. And that artist’s worse off than either of them. Living just anyhow, the porter tells me. The char who cleans for him says there’s nothing much beyond bread and cheese goes into the flat!”
Woods nodded. “That may well be, and yet it can all be accounted for quite easily perhaps. The doctor has had to make a bit of an outlay. He won’t do well in a neighbourhood like this if he doesn’t have a prosperous-looking house and a good car, and so on. He’s had to incur expense, and he’s unlucky in the time he’s chosen. People have been economizing, so the papers say, on their doctors and their nursing-homes. Harley Street is as hard hit as the Stock Exchange. I suppose Dr. Ainslie has gambled on the chance that recovery is setting in now. Mr. Godfrey and this artist, Hetherington, are in the same boat. They’re all in the ‘luxury’ trades, as they’re called. When money is short, jewels and pictures are easily done without. People just don’t buy. As for Mr. Fordham, I imagine there, too, he might have kept his end up if the bottom hadn’t dropped out of trade. Big firms aren’t putting up buildings, no one wants that floor-covering stuff. I expect his commission has simply fallen away to nothing. But it’s all what you might have expected in a locality of this sort, really. The people who live round here are just the class which has been hardly hit.”
“Yes,” said Riley, with a slight sigh. “Yes, I suppose that’s so. Makes you realize how these people look all right, prosperous, nice families, nice homes, and then you get to know the inside of their affairs, and they’ve less security than you or I.”
Woods nodded his agreement with this piece of moralizing, and then saying, “Well, you get on with those inquiries, Riley,” began to clear off the arrears in routine work before tackling the next piece of work on the case, which was to be the attempt to trace George Fordham’s whereabouts at 4.30 on the 20th.