For a considerable time French pondered the problem of whether he could find out what he wanted to know about Lyde without approaching the man in person. To ask him to account for his movements on the Saturday evening was the obvious course, but it had the serious drawback of showing French’s hand. Lyde would be put on his guard, and not only Lyde, but Sloley and Sheen also.
It was entirely undesirable that this information should be given away, but French could not see how to avoid it. Under the circumstances the only way to learn what Lyde had done was to ask him.
Accordingly, French made it his business to call with Carter at Sheen’s house early next morning. Once again Mrs Sheen opened the door. She looked at the two officers without speaking. French explained their call.
It appeared Lyde was at home, and French and his companion were shown to the same room as on their previous visit. With a curt remark to her brother that the chief-inspector wished to see him, Mrs Sheen withdrew and left them to it.
‘Good morning, Mr Lyde,’ French began. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but one or two further points have come up in this Norne inquiry, and I am in hopes that you will kindly help me with some information.’
‘Still at it?’ Lyde replied with a scarcely veiled sneer. ‘Another serious crime unsolved by Scotland Yard? We read of a good many these days.’
‘That’s so,’ French agreed amicably. ‘But you will understand that we have to make a show of working at them. Otherwise we should lose our jobs.’
‘Oh, I suppose it doesn’t do any harm, if it doesn’t seem to do much good.’
‘Quite, and if one can make one’s living harmlessly it’s all to the good. Everyone doesn’t achieve that, you know, Mr Lyde.’
Lyde shrugged impatiently, as if anxious to make an end of such foolish talk. ‘Well, what do you want now?’ he asked rudely.
‘May we sit down?’ French answered as he took a chair at the table and placed his open note book before him. Carter, with another note book, sat beside him.
‘Make yourselves at home,’ said Lyde, still standing on the hearthrug.
‘Thank you, sir,’ French rejoined innocently, ‘I think we’re all right now. It’s about that Saturday night, the night before Mr Minter died. Now, you made a statement about your movements that evening, which I have here in my book. That statement was satisfactory as far as it went, but I’m hoping that you may be able to amplify it a little for me now.’
‘What the hell do you mean by saying it was satisfactory?’ Lyde asked roughly. ‘Do you think I’m called upon to justify my actions to you?’
‘Every citizen may be called upon to justify his actions before one of his country’s courts,’ French pointed out, ‘but it’s usually easier for him to talk matters over in private instead. I have come to you for this information, but it is my duty to inform you that you are not bound to answer my questions and that anything you say may be used in evidence. That is a formal warning which I am bound to give you.’
‘Well, then,’ Lyde said with a sneer, ‘if I needn’t answer your questions, I’m not going to.’
‘That’s a matter for yourself, sir, but in that case I shall have to ask you to come with me now to Scotland Yard where your views and attitude may be put on record.’
Lyde looked taken aback at this and some of the offensiveness went out of his manner. ‘What’s that?’ he asked. ‘Are you accusing me of some crime?’
‘No, sir,’ French said in an unmoved tone. ‘But I’ve got to get my information, or account to my superiors for my failure to do so. It’s immaterial to me which it is. You please yourself.’
Lyde looked at him venomously, then threw himself into an armchair and took out his pipe. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but you know that information obtained by threats isn’t usually worth much.’
‘No threats at all, sir: only a statement of cause and effect. Well, I’m glad you’ve decided to let us have our talk here. As a matter of fact, it’s more comfortable than at the Yard.’
‘Oh, to hell!’ the actor growled. ‘Get on with your blasted job, and get done with it and get out. And look here, I’ve an appointment with Otto Goldstein at twelve, so you can’t be all day.’
‘Right, sir, I’ll not be long. As I said, I want a more detailed statement as to your movements on that Saturday evening. You said,’ French rapidly turned over the pages of his book and read some items, ‘that after the children’s party you packed for France and went from here by tube to Victoria, where you caught the 8.20 Continental boat-train. Do you adhere to that statement?’
‘Of course I adhere to it.’
‘I suggest you think carefully before doing so. Suppose I told you that you were seen in the Norne building just before eight o’clock, would you still adhere to it?’
French was still consulting his notes, but he managed to steal a glance at the other. This was certainly a blow. Figuratively speaking, the man staggered under it. But he quickly recovered.
‘I couldn’t have been seen in the Norne building, for the simple reason that I wasn’t there. If anyone says I was, he’s mistaken.’
‘Well, now,’ French persisted, ‘I’ll give you something to think about. When you reached the top floor, the floor of Miss Barber’s office, did you notice that the light was on?’
French now gave up any pretence of looking at his notebook and stared at the other full in the face. Lyde did not reply at once, and an expression of doubt, not unmingled with fear, grew in his eyes. French experienced a sudden thrill. Up to now he had been bluffing, a somewhat dangerous game for a man in his position. But now suddenly he was satisfied. He knew. The man was lying and the bluff had been justified.
Lyde, however, quickly pulled himself together. ‘Is that a usual trick in your abominable business?’ he asked scornfully. ‘I wasn’t in the Norne building and I don’t see how I could know about the light.’
‘That would seem reasonable,’ French admitted. ‘At the same time consider the facts. The lobby light, as a matter of fact, was on. It was on before Mr Sloley or Mr Sheen reached the building. Who turned it on? Well, I’ll tell you. There was another person in the building that night. This person has made a statement to the police, a statement to the effect that a certain person—who shall be nameless—climbed the stairs to the office—eight double flights—treading softly in rubber-soled shoes. He reached the top floor and went directly into Miss Barber’s room.’ French leaned forward confidentially. ‘You see, Mr Lyde, all that can be proved in court.’
‘But you can’t prove it was me.’
French shrugged. ‘Do you think if I couldn’t, I would talk to you as I have? Do be reasonable, Mr Lyde. I expect you have a perfectly innocent explanation for your call and I’m giving you the chance to make it, if you care to do so. But, of course, my formal warning stands.’
French could follow the man’s thoughts as if some kind of lid had been raised from his mind, leaving it bare and open to observers. It was the light being on in the lobby that had done the trick. Lyde had been there and he had noticed that the light was on. Whether or not this had given him furiously to think at the time, it had done so now. He realised that someone else must have been there, and this so weighted French’s bluff as to make it invincible.
For some time silence reigned, then at last Lyde seemed to come to a decision.
‘I told you the truth in my statement. I said I went from here to Victoria by tube and caught the 8.20, and so I did. I didn’t say I didn’t call at Norne’s on the way. You didn’t ask me.’
‘Then you admit now that you called?’
‘There’s no “admitting” about it. On that previous occasion you didn’t ask me the question.’
‘Very well, sir, we’ll put it this way. You now amplify your previous statement by saying you called at the Norne building on your way to Victoria.’
‘I did, and I’d like to know why I shouldn’t and why you’re making such a song about it?’
French’s heart was beginning to sink. It was unlikely, he thought, that the man would take this line if he were guilty.
‘My reason for asking should be perfectly clear. We know that a crime was committed in Norne’s during that weekend, and we must, therefore, inquire into everything that went on there. You yourself aroused my suspicions because you didn’t mention your visit. I haven’t said you did anything wrong: I said that I wanted an explanation of your call. Now, will you please give it.’
Lyde was obviously unwilling to speak, but he did so at length.
‘The thing’s perfectly simple,’ he said in a sulky voice. ‘When I was giving my last turn at the children’s party, it suddenly occurred to me that my sister had borrowed a fiver from me that day to pay some bill. I wanted the money to go to France with, and I had taken a mental note to get it from Sheen when he came home. But I had forgotten all about it, and I was short for my journey. I spoke to Sheen, but by an unlucky chance he hadn’t the money in the house. It was too late, of course, to get it at the bank, so he said, “I’ll tell you: come along round to Norne’s and I’ll get it for you out of the petty cash. I can return it on Monday.” I said, “I’ll not be ready to go with you and Sloley; I’ve got to wash this blasted paint off my face.” “Then come direct to the office,” he said. “Here’s my key and I’ll meet you in Miss Barber’s room at quarter to eight.” I knew the office slightly, for I had been there on one occasion with my brother-in-law.
‘I went as he said, but when I came to the lift I didn’t try to use it. I had noticed it was run by an attendant and I was afraid I might not be able to work it. So I did climb those damned stairs, as your observer said. And when I got to the top I wasn’t on for any big man stuff. I just crept to Miss Barber’s room as best I could and sat down to try and get my breath.’
‘I follow. And what happened then?’
‘In three or four minutes Sloley and the brother-in-law turned up. Sheen went out of the room and came back directly with five pounds. I took the money and cleared off to Victoria. Is that enough for you?’
‘I think so,’ French replied cautiously. ‘But tell me: If there was so little in the thing as all that, why should you have made a mystery about it? Why couldn’t you have mentioned it at first and saved all this trouble?’
Lyde’s unpleasant manner returned. He laughed scornfully. ‘Well, I think you might have seen that,’ he said offensively. ‘The brother-in-law wanted it kept dark. He didn’t think it would look any too well if it were known that he borrowed from the office funds, even if he intended to pay back at once.’
French had to admit to himself that this was reasonable. In fact, the whole story was reasonable. He wondered if it were true. However, some tests were possible. Had Mrs Sheen borrowed that five pounds? Had Sheen obtained the sum on Monday, when presumably he had paid it back into the petty cash? Had there been five pounds in the petty cash on that evening; if so, where was the money kept and had Sheen access to it? Some work would be required on the story and French felt that he must put it in at once.
But his suspicion of Lyde was not confined to that visit to the office. Lyde might also have pawned the camera. Lyde might even have murdered Minter. It would be better, therefore, to see what proof there was that he did cross to France by that evening’s train.
‘That’s excellent, Mr Lyde, so far as it goes,’ French declared. ‘Now, while we’re at it I want you please to continue your story to cover the weekend. Except that you went to France I know nothing about it.’
‘And why should you?’ Lyde asked truculently.
‘If you must know,’ French returned bluntly, ‘I want to be sure of two things. The first is that you really did go. The second, that you didn’t come back on Sunday.’
‘Oh, so that’s it, is it? You still think I burgled that safe?’
‘I never said anything of the kind. But it’s obvious that if you were in France during the weekend, I can be no longer interested in your movements.’
For some moments Lyde digested this, then sulky once again, he repeated his original question. ‘Well, what do you want?’
‘Some proof that you were in France over the weekend. Tell you what; if you’ll say just what you did when you were there, it should do the trick. You can’t have moved about for two days without meeting people who would remember it.’
‘And you are going over to see them?’
‘Not if your statement is satisfactory. But I might do so.’
‘Well, you’re candid at all events. I suppose I may as well tell you. I crossed over by the 8.20 from Victoria, that is, via Newhaven and Dieppe. I got into Paris early in the morning, about six. I hadn’t slept very well, so I went to the bathrooms at St Lazare and had a bath. I had a good slow soak in hot water, which rested me and I felt fine again. I was hungry when I came out of it and I went round to the restaurant at the station and had my breakfast. By the time I had finished it was getting on to eight o’clock. I took the Metro then to the P. L. M. station and got a train for Fontainebleau about quarter to nine. I should explain that some years ago, when I was living in Paris, I used to go a good deal to Fontainebleau, and I wanted to take advantage of this visit to France to have a day’s tramp over my old haunts. Sentimental, I dare say, but one does these things.’
‘I’ve done it myself,’ French agreed, ‘though unhappily not at Fontainebleau. It’s one of the places I’m still hoping to visit before I die.’
Lyde looked as if he would prefer French to die first, but he continued without putting this into words.
‘I bought some lunch at the P. L. M. buffet, left my suitcase in the consigne and took the train. I don’t know just at what time I arrived at Fontainebleau, but it must have been about ten. Then I set off for my tramp. I visited the places I wanted to see, had lunch in the forest, and returned to the station. I don’t remember the exact time of the train, though if it’s important you can look it up: it was getting on to five. I got back to Paris about six, and then I took the Metro to my hotel, the Hotel de Belleville, in the Rue Mallet, off the Boul’ Miche. I changed and had some dinner, and then I went out to keep my appointment.’
‘Excuse me, why didn’t you go to the hotel in the morning and leave your things there?’
‘Why should I have? It was out of my way, and all I wanted was a bath and breakfast, which I could get at the station I arrived at.’
This also seemed reasonable, and French nodded. ‘Your appointment then?’
‘Yes, do you want to know all about it too?’
‘I want to know, sir, whom you met and when and where you met him or her or them. I don’t want to know your business.’
‘Oh, you don’t, don’t you? I’m surprised at that. Well, I’ll tell you all the same. I went over to see M. André Brissonnet, the film producer. I had worked with him before in historical stuff, and I had heard that he was starting a big Empire film. I went to see if I could get a job.’
‘Thank you, sir, but you needn’t have told me that. What I want to know is where you saw him and when.’
‘I saw him at the Elysée Palace, where he lives. My appointment was for nine o’clock, and you may bet I was on time.’
If this story were true, it finally disposed of Lyde as a participant in the crime. But here again, was it true? It had one rather significant feature, or so French thought. From the moment at which Lyde had left the Norne building, about eight o’clock on Saturday night, until he reached his hotel in Paris between six and seven on Sunday, it contained no single item capable of confirmation. It was exceedingly unlikely that any of the railway or steamer officials would have noticed him, and the same applied to the Customs and passport men on both sides of the Channel. The bath attendant at St Lazare might remember him, as might also the waiter at the station restaurant, but again they might not. At all events, if they did not, it would be no proof that he hadn’t been there. Nor, apparently, was there anyone at Fontainebleau to whom he, French, could apply. No, whether by accident or design, Lyde’s movements for the essential twenty-four hours could not be established by any of the ordinary means.
French pressed the man to give him some item which could be checked, or to mention someone whom he had met, but without success. Lyde had come across no one whom he knew. Again this was reasonable and might be true.
French sat thinking over the story. Then suddenly he could have kicked himself. There to his hand was all the proof he could possibly require, and he had missed it.
‘Have you got your passport handy?’ he asked.
With a bad grace Lyde got up and left the room. Presently he returned and threw down on the table a blue book of familiar shape. French took it up, satisfied himself that it really was Lyde’s, and turned to the last page of the visés.
‘It got knocked out of my hand by a lunatic who thought he was going to miss the train at Newhaven,’ Lyde explained. ‘It fell face downwards in the mud.’
It was indeed in a mess. Smears of brown mud ran across it and in the crease between the pages small grains of sand still lodged. These, however, had not wholly obscured what French wanted to see. On the pages were four recent stamps, covered by smears, but still readable. There was one leaving Newhaven on the 20th October, one arriving at Dieppe on the 21st, and two leaving Dieppe and arriving at Newhaven on the 22nd. That was to say the bearer had left Newhaven on the Saturday, arrived at Dieppe on the Sunday, and returned to England on the Monday.
These dates completely substantiated Lyde’s story. Travellers by the 8.20 from Victoria reached Newhaven before midnight and Dieppe after it. Unless someone else had travelled on the passport, Lyde was innocent. And this was unlikely, for the photograph of Lyde was particularly distinctive.
‘Tell me, did M. Brissonnet ask you to go over to meet him?’
Lyde laughed scornfully. ‘No blooming fear. I thought he was doing well enough when he agreed to see me. He’s a big bug in the film world.’
Though French was not very satisfied with the interview, he did not see what more he could do. Lyde had answered his questions, and though his manner had been unpleasant, French was accustomed to rudeness and thought little of it. Many people adopted a blustering manner when interrogated by the police. If they were innocent, they thought the questions insulting: if guilty, it was due to the fear of seeming afraid. French decided he would get the Paris men to check up on the interview with M. Brissonnet, and if that were satisfactory, as he was sure it would be, he would have to accept the alibi. Accordingly, he returned to the Yard and put through a call to the Sureté, asking for the required information.
He felt rather badly up against it. He had been on to what had seemed a promising clue, and now it looked like petering out. If Lyde had been in France during that critical weekend, he might as well dismiss him from his thoughts at once, for the man could not have been guilty of either murder or theft.
However, before putting the idea of Lyde’s guilt finally out of his mind, French decided he would arrange a meeting between him and the pawnshop assistant with whom the camera had been pledged. This must be done unknown to Lyde, and French began to work out a suitable scheme.
For a moment he did not see how it was to be accomplished, then he realised that Lyde himself had given him the hint. The man had said that he had an appointment with Otto Goldstein for twelve noon that day. Goldstein was a well-known man in the film world, and a glance at the directory showed that his office was in Stephen Street, a narrow street off Regent Street. French saw that he had just time for his plan, and running down from his office, he found Carter and bundled him into a taxi.
‘Messrs Dobson & Hall, Shaftesbury Avenue,’ he told the driver, and then to Carter: ‘Identification of man who popped the camera. If that blighter Lyde was telling the truth, he’s due at Goldstein’s in Stephen Street in half an hour. We’ll have the pawnbroker’s assistant to see him.’
The manager of Dobson & Hall’s was accommodating, as French knew he would be. At once he arranged leave for his assistant, George Glave.
‘It’s that case I was speaking to you about before,’ French explained to Glave as they drove towards Regent Street. ‘The pledging of the ciné camera. I’ve a notion the man who did it will walk this morning through Stephen Street. I want you to sit back in the taxi and watch the people passing. If you see him don’t make a song about it, but point him out quietly to me.’
Glave was obviously interested. He would be pleased, he said, to do what the chief-inspector wanted, and if the man passed he would certainly recognise him.
Stephen Street was a narrow lane which carried but little moving traffic. Indeed, it was almost filled with commercial vehicles parking outside warehouses and offices. French arranged for their taxi to take its place outside a merchant tailor’s, from where a clear view could be obtained of persons entering Goldstein’s office.
‘Better move in behind, Carter,’ he went on. ‘We couldn’t risk the shock of him suddenly seeing anything like your face. If you can’t squeeze in between us, Mr Glave will give you his place and he can sit on your knee.’
By the time their dispositions were complete it was ten minutes to twelve. French was not entirely hopeful as to the result of the experiment. If Glave were to pick out Lyde, he might take it as proof that the actor was mixed up in the crime. But the converse did not apply. If Lyde passed unnoticed, it did not follow that he was innocent. And, of course, there was a third contingency, perhaps more likely than either: that Lyde would not pass at all.
However, there was nothing for it but to wait and see, and as twelve approached even French grew more eager and watched more intently the pavement in front of them.
Suddenly he noticed Lyde turn into the street and walk towards Goldstein’s office. His direction of approach was the best that he could have taken for French’s plans, for he faced the taxi as he came forward. Now for it! Would Glave spot him?
It made French more confident in the man’s evidence that he did so at once. Lyde had scarcely taken three steps forward when he whispered, ‘There he is.’
‘Don’t be in a hurry,’ French advised. ‘Look at him carefully as he passes and be quite sure before you speak.’
When Lyde had turned into Goldstein’s door Glave expressed himself in no uncertain terms. Lyde was the man who had popped the camera. Of that he was absolutely assured. The chief-inspector could count on his evidence if he wanted it.
French was entirely delighted. Here was the greatest single step towards a solution that he had yet made. Lyde definitely was in the theft, and in all probability Sloley and Sheen were in it too. Knowing what he now knew, it should not be hard to get his proof.
Inevitably French’s thoughts went back to the alibi. If Lyde were in the theft, had he really done no more than call at the office on that Saturday night? Before the man’s plausible explanation, there had been his denials. Had Lyde really gone to France? In the light of this new discovery all French’s doubts revived.
Then suddenly he could have kicked himself. He had been a fool! He believed now that he had been tricked.
From his room at the Yard he rang up the Meteorological Office. Could they tell him what the weather had been like in Northern France and Southern England during the weekend of the 20th-22nd ultimo and for some days before it?
Soon there was reply. Those days and the preceding week had been fine.
Lyde, then, if he had dropped his passport on the Newhaven quay at all, had done it at the end of a week of fine weather. What about the mud with which it had been so thickly coated?
French swore. That mud would usefully cover unsightly scrapes on the paper!
He sent a man to Sheen’s house to watch for the return of Lyde, and when the constable rang up to say the quarry had arrived, he hurried out. He saw that if Lyde had been fully awake to his position he would have burnt the passport. French’s own evidence would have cleared him of participation in the crime. He could only hope the man had not been so acute.
‘I’m extremely sorry to trouble you again, Mr Lyde,’ French apologised when once more he and Carter were seated in the dining room. ‘This time I shall not keep you a moment. It’s just something I forgot this morning. I omitted to take the number and date of your passport. May I have these, as the regulations require that I check up that it was really issued to you.’
Lyde at the beginning of this address had seemed to regain all his nervousness, but the latter portion reassured him and he became sarcastic about the way the Yard did its business. However, his tone changed once again when French slipped the book into his pocket and said that he was going to keep it for a day or so, and here was a receipt.
Eagerly French took the book to the department which dealt with forgery of documents.
‘Have a look at that Newhaven stamp,’ he said, ‘and tell me if it’s quite all right?’
‘Looks all right,’ the officer in charge answered, ‘to the naked eye. But we’ll not try the naked eye on it.’ He slipped it beneath a low-powered microscope, fidgeted and focused till French could have screamed, and then went on coolly: ‘No, I guess you’ve got it this time, whatever it is. That date is a very neat forgery. It looks as if it had been changed from 21st to 20th. Would that help you any?’
French choked. ‘That would about set me up for life,’ he said at length. ‘Blessings on you, my son! Incidentally, you’ve probably hanged three men!’