That night as he sat smoking before going to bed, French continued wrestling with his problem. He had evolved a fairly satisfactory theory of the murder of Minter, but so far he had been unable to find the motive. Was there really nothing to indicate it?
Very little thought, however, showed him that there might well be a motive. Suppose there were a connection between the murder and the theft and that these two, Norne and Minter, were the thieves? Suppose that, seeing their livelihood threatened, they had decided on desperate measures to retrieve their fortunes? Suppose that Norne had lent Minter his key, that Minter had burgled the safe, divided the spoils, and brought Norne down his share? Suppose that either they had quarrelled about the division, or that Norne had decided that a shared secret was too dangerous for his peace of mind, and had silenced Minter’s tongue? Or suppose that Norne had wanted the whole of the swag?
Here was all the motive any investigating officer could want. But was it the truth?
If it were, French ought not only to be able to get his man, but to recover the booty as well. Neither Norne nor Minter, if they were guilty, could have in so short a time got rid of so great a haul. French rather timorously congratulated himself. All the same he had misgivings. To have reached a solution so soon seemed just a bit too good to be true.
There were, moreover, some difficulties in the theory. When, for example, could Minter have rifled the safe? If it were full on Saturday morning, it could only have been done on that afternoon. Here, then, was an obvious line of research. Could the whole of the man’s time be accounted for?
Again, if Minter had rifled the safe, where was the booty? It was surely unlikely that he had brought it down in his suitcase. If not, where was it? Another matter to be looked into.
When he reached the Yard next morning French found a note from Sir Mortimer Ellison saying he would be glad to have his personal report on the case. After hurriedly looking through a disappointing collection of reports, he went into the presence.
‘I think you did the right thing in going to Guildford,’ Sir Mortimer approved when French had made his statement. ‘Have you any theory?’
‘Only in a tentative way, sir,’ French answered. ‘I thought that possibly—’ and he indicated the lines on which his mind had been travelling.
‘There’s motive there, certainly,’ Sir Mortimer agreed. ‘Those fellows must have felt pretty sick about their business. What would you or I feel like, French, if we knew the Yard was going to be discontinued, and that not only would our salaries go, but that our other possessions would be taken to pay arrears of rent. And the more comfortable we were here, the worse we’d feel. That’s the position of those fellows. They had practically everything to lose if their firm went under, and they might very well have agreed that whoever else went down, they weren’t going to.’
‘That’s what I thought, sir.’
‘And, of course, there was ample opportunity also,’ Sir Mortimer went on as if he had not heard. ‘Then, as you suggest, Minter was got out of the way so that Norne might feel safe, or that he might get more of the swag. Yes, I think that’s reasonable enough. Any alternatives?’
French hesitated. ‘I’m afraid not so far, sir. I’ve not done as much thinking about the thing as I hope to.’
Sir Mortimer gazed unseeingly before him from beneath his heavy eyelids. Absently his fingers crept to a box, opened it, and drew out a cigarette. He lighted it as if in a dream, and began slowly smoking.
‘I suppose,’ he said presently, ‘that Norne couldn’t have done it to get Minter’s key? I mean, that Minter himself was innocent? Let’s see how that would work out. Norne wants the stuff, but he can’t get Minter’s key. He could borrow it, of course, but Minter’s a sharp chap, and when the burglary came off, he would tumble to what had happened. How would that do—that Norne did the killing to get Minter’s key and silence Minter?’
French hesitated. ‘Could he have got it, sir? The key was presumably with Minter as long as he was conscious. Otherwise he’d have made a fuss about it. Then it was taken charge of by the Guildford sergeant early in the morning. Norne couldn’t have taken it to Town.’
‘Obviously. But he could have taken a pressing of it and an accomplice could have made it during Sunday, and that night either Norne or the accomplice or both of them could have gone to London and done the job. I don’t put this forward as inspired. But think it over also.’
French said he would certainly do so, and that he was grateful for the hint. He was not, however, impressed. If Norne were capable of working out the scheme that he apparently had, he was surely capable of obtaining an impression of Minter’s key without having to murder him for it. However, that was what he, French, had to think over.
‘I agree with you,’ Sir Mortimer went on, ‘that you will have to go into Minter’s movements on the Saturday. Though whether you will be solving the Guildford superintendent’s case or your own, I don’t know. How about the other inquiries?’
‘Nothing valuable has come in, sir. None of the stolen stuff has been put on the market, and we’ve got nothing helpful from the Norne staff.’
Sir Mortimer made a languid gesture of dismissal. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we must just stick to it. That’s life, French! Just sticking to it, eh?’
‘It’s about the size of it, sir,’ French returned rather grimly. It was about the size of it! The phrase described just about ninety-nine per cent of French’s waking life. For the other one per cent there might be luck or inspiration, success or failure, triumph or tears. But ‘just sticking to it’ covered practically all his normal existence.
As he returned to his room he saw that for the next day at least his programme was settled. If Minter were a confederate of Norne’s he must have stolen the stuff between the closing of the office on Saturday and eight o’clock that night. That Saturday afternoon of Minter’s must be checked up before an advance could be hoped for.
Then suddenly French wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake. Was there any evidence that the jewels were in the safe on Saturday morning?
He remembered another jewel robbery in which it was found the thief had actually disposed of his haul before the discovery of the theft. Could that have been done in this case? Could Minter and Norne have been selling stones for some time, gradually clearing out the safe, perhaps replacing those which would be seen by other members of the staff by paste copies? If anything of this kind had been done, the most promising clue, the coming of the stones on to the market, had probably gone west.
It was therefore not to Minter’s house that French presently headed, but back to the Norne Company’s offices. If evidence existed as to the contents of the safe on Saturday morning, he must get hold of it.
With Sergeant Carter in attendance he asked to see Miles, the foreman of the Works Department. Miles was the man who had the duplicate card index, so that he might know just what stones were available for making up his sets. Next to Norne and Minter, Miles used the safe most.
French found it a little difficult to frame his question without giving away his suspicion of Norne. Norne had said the stuff was there on Saturday morning. Therefore, theoretically there could be no doubt of this. After some thought, however, French devised a plan. He consulted his list of the stolen property and fixed on a group of four large diamonds of outstanding beauty and value.
‘I want your help on a small point, Mr Miles,’ he began. ‘It’s about those four large stones you called the “Raggamond Four.” Those.’ His finger slid down the list.
‘I know them well,’ Miles returned. ‘They were to be used in a pendant we were making for the Duchess of Skye. Worth a fortune, those four alone.’
‘So I understand. Now, Mr Miles, I’m interested in those four stones. I don’t say we’re on the track of them, but I’d like to be quite sure when they were in the safe. We know from Mr Norne that the contents appeared to be intact on Saturday morning, but it has occurred to me that perhaps these four stones might have been abstracted before that time. Can you settle the point for me?’
Miles looked a little puzzled. ‘Have you asked Mr Norne?’ he said doubtfully.
‘No,’ said French, ‘I didn’t want to disturb him till he’d finished his correspondence. I shall ask him though, if you can’t tell me.’
Miles made a slightly deprecating gesture. ‘I can’t and that’s a fact,’ he answered. ‘Those four stones were in one of the drawers, but I hadn’t that drawer open on Saturday, nor indeed for several days before that.’
‘You had the safe open on Saturday then?’
‘Oh, yes, I had the safe open. I wanted stones for different jobs we were working on.’
‘Quite. Well, so far as you could see, was everything there?’
‘Certainly it was. If I had missed anything, do you think I wouldn’t have mentioned it?’
‘I didn’t mean that, Mr Miles. What I wanted to get at was how much of the contents you saw? How many drawers you opened, for instance?’
Miles nodded. ‘I could hardly say. A dozen at least; probably more. But besides that a lot of the stuff was in trays that I could see. I don’t mean that I examined it over tray by tray, but I had a look round and if any quantity was missing I should have noticed it.’
French thought he might accept this evidence. If so, his first point was settled. The theft had not taken place before Saturday afternoon.
‘By the way,’ he said as he rose to his feet, ‘could you tell me what time you saw the safe open?’
‘About eleven.’
‘The work in hand was not put away in the safe when the shop closed?’
‘Not in that safe. We have a smaller one here for that.’
The next man to be interviewed was obviously Pendlebury, Minter’s chief clerk, and French found him in his late chief’s room. Pendlebury looked a man of the highest type, and the more French talked to him, the more convinced of this he became. Pendlebury had already been interrogated, but he made no difficulty about answering further questions.
When testing theories French usually inquired about irrelevant matters as well as the vital one, in order to keep his objective secret. He did so in this instance, but the only points which really interested him were the hours at which Minter had reached and left the office on the fateful day.
Of both these times Pendlebury was able to speak with decision. Minter had arrived on the stroke of half-past nine. He was a man of very regular habits, and was seldom more than a minute or two before or after his time. He had been in his office during the whole morning, except for about ten minutes during which he went to see Norne. That was about eleven. He had left as usual at twelve forty-five.
‘What sort of humour was Mr Minter in that day?’ French went on.
‘Much as usual,’ Pendlebury returned; ‘I didn’t notice anything one way or another.’
‘He was a man of—eh—even temper?’
‘He was a man of good temper. Only when he was ill he was a bit irritable, and there was some excuse for that.’
‘I agree. He didn’t complain of his health on Saturday?’
‘No. Of course, you couldn’t count that as anything. He never did complain unless he was really bad.’
‘Bilious, wasn’t he?’
Pendlebury became more confidential. ‘I don’t know,’ he said in a lower tone. ‘He called it biliousness, but I always suspected something more serious. Ulcer or something of that sort, I imagined. But, of course, I don’t know any more than you do.’
‘Did it come on suddenly?’
‘It did. Often he would seem well enough in the morning and in the afternoon he would have to go home. And it cleared up in the same way. Often he would come in looking like a rag and able to do very little, and by lunch time he was all right.’
‘So the fact that he seemed well enough on Saturday morning wouldn’t conflict with the statement that he was ill in the evening?’
‘Not in any way at all.’
From 11 a.m., then, when the contents of the safe were still intact, till 12.45, when Minter left the building, the man had been in his office, under the observation of Pendlebury. French had already taken preliminary statements from Sheen and Sloley, in which both men had declared that Minter had met them in the office shortly before eight o’clock on the Saturday evening. This had been confirmed by Mrs Turbot, the charwoman, who had seen the three men arrive.
Unless Sloley and Sheen were also in the affair—and a conspiracy of four seemed unthinkable—Minter could not have cleared out the safe during that late visit. From that visit until his death every moment of his time was accounted for. Therefore, the only period still remaining doubtful was that from 12.45 to 8 p.m.
After lunch French set off with Carter for Rapallo, as Minter had named his house in Peacehaven Avenue, St John’s Wood. The house was small and unpretentious, standing in what might by courtesy be called its own grounds; thirty feet in front and forty behind, with about five at each side. But such ground as there was had been made the most of. The windows were screened from the road by evergreens, kept low to prevent interference with the light. The entrance path, edged with flower-beds, was at one side of the tiny property, while at the other was a miniature but beautifully arranged rock garden. At the back French glimpsed grass edged with shrubs. The Minters had evidently not kept a car, or at least, there was no garage on the premises.
The door was opened by an elderly and very respectable looking maid, a type which was formerly common enough, but which for many years has seemed extinct. She looked at the visitors questioningly. French explained himself and asked for Mrs Minter.
‘Come in, gentlemen,’ the woman replied, opening the door. ‘I’ll see if Mrs Minter can receive you. You understand that she has not been well.’
‘Tell her,’ said French, ‘that only urgent business forces me to intrude on her at such a time. I can understand how she must be feeling.’
The maid vanished, reappeared, and invited them to enter.
Mrs Minter was a surprise to French. Comparatively young, she was tall, stately, and extremely good-looking, though with a rather hard face. Handsome rather than pretty, he thought. Though dressed simply in some dark material, he would have bet long odds that her clothes had cost a lot of money. She did not speak, but looked from French’s card to himself with an air of slightly insolent inquiry.
He began by apologising for his visit and stating the regret he felt in asking her to discuss her husband’s death. She answered coldly that she understood that this was unavoidable, and that she would answer any reasonable questions. French thanked her briefly and began.
First he asked her about her husband’s health. She confirmed what Pendlebury had told him, saying that Dr Fotherby-Wentworth, who had attended him, had called his attacks indigestion, and adding that if the chief-inspector were interested, she would suggest his calling on the doctor.
‘Thank you, madam, I’ll do so,’ French answered, and turned to the fatal Saturday’s attack. But here Mrs Minter could not help him. She had left home for the Sheen’s party immediately after lunch. At lunch her husband had seemed much as usual, though he was undoubtedly depressed. He had been depressed for some time, and she believed it was due to the precarious position of his firm, about which he had told her. He had certainly not complained of a headache, but she agreed with the chief-inspector that this was no reason to suppose he might not have been ill at five o’clock. After lunch, she had never seen him again—until she had identified his remains at Guildford.
‘What time did you get home, madam?’ French inquired.
‘About half-past eleven. I had supper with the Sheens and went with them to the theatre.’
‘Mr Minter was here when you left for your party?’
‘Oh, yes, I left him in here. He was lying on the sofa, smoking and reading.’
‘You live alone here, madam? I mean there was just yourself and Mr Minter and the servant in the house?’
‘That was all. We had no family.’
French paused. This seemed to be all the information he could expect from Mrs Minter. He ran his eye quickly down his notes, then stod up.
‘I’m much obliged, madam,’ he said. ‘That’s all I require at present. Now, if you please, I should like a word with your maid.’
Mrs Minter rang the bell. ‘Take these gentlemen into the dining room, Martha,’ she said, ‘and answer their questions.’
The interview had been easier than French had anticipated. Mrs Minter had been unexpectedly philosophic about her husband’s death. Her manner, while correct, had remained cold and slightly contemptuous, and if she felt grief, she had certainly been successful in hiding it.
The dining room faced towards the back of the house, and through its window French could see the little back garden. Once again he was struck with the ingenuity which had been shown in developing the tiny area. With its centre of grass, its summer-house and its background of shrubs, it might have been in the heart of the country.
The maid said her name was Martha Belden, and that she had been with the Minters for five years. She described Minter’s state of health, much as Mrs Minter had done. She had evidently liked him, and was sorry for his death.
On Saturday afternoon, she went on, Mrs Minter had gone out about half-past two. Mr Minter was on the sofa in the drawing room when she left. When Martha had washed up the lunch things she went up to her room and started some sewing. She stayed up there for perhaps an hour, then feeling cold, she brought her sewing down to the kitchen.
‘Was Mr Minter still in the drawing room?’ French interposed.
‘Yes, he was there all the time.’
‘Now just tell me how you know that?’
‘If he had come out of the drawing room I should have heard him. It’s a small house and I’ve got good ears. As a matter of fact, I did hear him come out and go back.’
French smiled. ‘That’s pretty conclusive,’ he admitted. ‘What did he come for?’
‘To answer the telephone.’
‘Better and better. What time was that?’
Martha paused. ‘About three. I was upstairs and was on my way down to answer it, but Mr Minter came out of the drawing room and did it himself.’
‘And he went back there when he had spoken?’
‘Yes, immediately.’
French nodded. ‘Now, we’ve got to about three o’clock, with Mr Minter in the drawing room. Do you happen to know what that message was about?’
Martha shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea,’ she declared, then after a moment’s pause she went on: ‘Mr Minter changed his plans that afternoon. He was going to leave before five, and then he didn’t go till after seven. I wondered if he had got a message then or later which made him do so. Of course, I don’t know that; it’s merely an idea I got that it might be.’
‘I’m glad you mentioned it. Now you said, “then or later.” Did Mr Minter get some other communication that afternoon?’
‘Yes, there was a second telephone message about half-past four. I was coming to that.’
‘Right. Go ahead in your own way. What happened after three o’clock?’
‘Well, as I said I stayed in my room till I began to feel cold and then came down to the kitchen. I suppose I came down about,’ she paused again, ‘half-past three or quarter to four. Mr Minter remained in the drawing room. About four the bell rang for tea and I brought it in. That was about quarter-past four. Mr Minter was still lying reading on the sofa.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘I didn’t notice anything one way or another. He seemed as usual.’
‘Would he have had tea if he was feeling ill?’
‘Oh, yes, he might. In fact, it was generally a cup of tea he asked for when he was feeling seedy.’
‘Very well. About quarter-past four you left it in for him. What happened next?’
‘About half-past four the telephone rang again. He came out and spoke. Then he—’
‘A moment. Did you hear what he said?’
The woman looked slightly indignant. ‘No,’ she said shortly, ‘I didn’t.’
‘I’m not,’ said French, with a disarming gesture, ‘questioning your statement, but I noticed the telephone was in the hall, and the kitchen, I take it, is close by, and it would be natural for you to overhear some words. I’m not suggesting you would listen, you know.’
Martha seemed mollified. ‘I didn’t hear,’ she repeated. ‘When he began to speak I pushed the door to, as I always do. I heard the murmur of his voice, but I couldn’t make out the words.’
French nodded. ‘Very good,’ he said, ‘if you didn’t, you didn’t. Did he speak for any time?’
‘No, not very long. Well, he stayed on in the drawing room till about five, and then he went up to his room. I heard him moving about, and I think he was packing his things for the weekend, because he came down about ten minutes later with his suitcase. He left it in the hall and went back to the drawing room.’
‘That would bring it to about ten minutes past five?’
‘About that’
‘Very good. When did you see him next?’
‘When he was going away.’ Martha stopped suddenly and made a slight gesture of negation. ‘No, I’m wrong. I saw him for a moment before that. A man called, an out of work, asking for help. I don’t hold with giving to people at the door, but Mr Minter was very kindly that way, and he always had to be told when anyone called. So I went into the drawing room and told him. He gave me a shilling for the man.’
‘About what time was that?’
‘About six.’
‘And did Mr Minter stay in the drawing room till he left?’
‘Yes, except for going up to his room again before starting, he was in the drawing room all the time.’
‘Then what time did he leave?’
‘About half-past seven.’
‘How?’
‘How?’
‘Did he walk or go by taxi?’
‘By taxi.’
‘Did you call it for him?’
‘No, it must have been arranged. It came to the door and the man rang.’
French paused. ‘Who ordered the taxi?’
‘He must have done it himself, I suppose. I never thought. Or perhaps Mrs Minter did it?’
French did not reply. It was unlikely Mrs Minter had done it, as unknown to her, Minter had changed the hour of his start.
For the first time Carter spoke. ‘Perhaps, sir, that was one of the ’phones? Maybe he was ringing up a garage?’
‘But I understood you to say,’ French turned again towards Martha, ‘that the telephone bell rang and called him out of the drawing room on both occasions? Are you sure he didn’t come out and ring up either of those times?’
‘No, I’m quite sure the bell rang first each time.’
‘Well, we’ll have to get that cleared up: not that it matters much. Where do you generally get taxis?’
‘We ring Nuttall’s Garage at the foot of the hill.’
‘You saw Mr Minter off?’
‘Yes, I put the suitcase in the taxi.’
‘Did you hear the address he gave?’
‘Yes, his office at the bottom of Kingsway.’
In a way French felt disappointed in this interview. Martha’s manner was so convincing that he felt he must accept her statement. And if so, Minter’s day was now fully accounted for. It was impossible that he could at any time have had private access to the safe, and therefore, he must be acquitted of any connection with the robbery. However, before coming to a final conclusion French decided he would check up on the taximan who drove Minter. If his testimony supported the rest, he would have to realise that his first theory of the crime had gone west.