The man laughed in rich amusement. “Robinson! That’s a good one. I always said she had no imagination. Couldn’t write a gag. Did you believe she was a Robinson?”
“Well, no; it seemed unlikely.”
“What did I tell you! Well, just to pay her out for treating me like bits on the cutting-room floor, I’m going to split on her. She’ll probably put me in the icebox for twenty-four hours, but it’ll be worth it. I’m no gentleman, anyhow, so I won’t damage myself in the telling. The lady’s name, Sergeant, is Christine Clay.”
“Christine Clay!” said the sergeant. His jaw slackened and dropped, quite beyond his control.
“Christine Clay!” breathed Mrs. Pitts, standing in the doorway, a forgotten tray of griddle cakes in her hands.
Chapter 3
Christine Clay! Christine Clay!” yelled the midday posters.
“Christine Clay!” screamed the headlines.
“Christine Clay!” chattered the wireless.
“Christine Clay!” said neighbor to neighbor.
All over the world people paused to speak the words. Christine Clay was drowned! And in all civilization only one person said, “Who is Christine Clay?”—a bright young man at a Bloomsbury party. And he was merely being “bright.”
All over the world things happened because one woman had lost her life. In California a man telephoned a summons to a girl in Greenwich Village. A Texas airplane pilot did an extra night flight carrying Clay films for rush showing. A New York firm canceled an order. An Italian nobleman went bankrupt: he had hoped to sell her his yacht. A man in Philadelphia ate his first square meal in months, thanks to an “I knew her when” story. A woman in Le Touquet sang because now her chance had come. And in an English cathedral town a man thanked God on his knees.
The Press, becalmed in the doldrums of the silly season, leaped to movement at so unhoped-for a wind. The Clarion recalled Bart Bartholomew, their “descriptive” man, from a beauty contest in Brighton (much to Bart’s thankfulness—he came back loudly wondering how butchers ate meat), and “Jammy” Hopkins, their “crime and passion” star, from a very dull and low-class poker killing in Bradford. (So far had the Clarion sunk.) News photographers deserted motor race tracks, reviews, society weddings, cricket, and the man who was going to Mars in a balloon, and swarmed like beetles over the cottage in Kent, the maisonette in South Street, and the furnished manor in Hampshire. That, having rented so charming a country retreat as this last, Christine Clay had yet run away to an unknown and inconvenient cottage without the knowledge of her friends made a very pleasant appendage to the main sensation of her death. Photographs of the manor (garden front, because of the yews) appeared labeled “The place Christine Clay owned” (she had only rented it for the season, but there was no emotion in renting a place); and next to these impressive pictures were placed photographs of the rose-embowered home of the people, with the caption “The place she preferred.”
Her press agent shed tears over that. Something like that would break when it was too late.
It might have been observed by any student of nature not too actively engaged in the consequences of it that Christine Clay’s death, while it gave rise to pity, dismay, horror, regret, and half a dozen other emotions in varying degrees, yet seemed to move no one to grief. The only outburst of real feeling had been that hysterical crisis of Robert Tisdall’s over her body. And who should say how much of that was self-pity? Christine was too international a figure to belong to anything so small as a “set.” But among her immediate acquaintances dismay was the most marked reaction of the dreadful news. And not always that. Coyne, who was due to direct her third and final picture in England, might be at the point of despair, but Lejeune (late Tomkins), who had been engaged to play opposite her, was greatly relieved; a picture with Clay might be a feather in your cap but it was a jinx in your box office. The Duchess of Trent, who had arranged a Clay luncheon which was to rehabilitate her as a hostess in the eyes of London, might be gnashing her teeth, but Lydia Keats was openly jubilant. She had prophesied the death, and even for a successful society seer that was a good guess. “Darling, how wonderful of you!” fluttered her friends. “Darling how wonderful of you!” On and on. Until Lydia so lost her head with delight that she spent all her days going from one gathering to another so that she might make that delicious entrance all over again, hear them say: “Here’s Lydia! Darling how—” and bask in the radiance of their wonder. No, as far as anyone could see, no hearts were breaking because Christine Clay was no more. The world dusted off its blacks and hoped for invitations to the funeral.
Chapter 4
But first there was the inquest. And it was at the inquest that the first faint stirring of a much greater sensation began to appear. It was Jammy Hopkins who noted the quiver on the smooth surface. He had earned his nickname because of his glad cry of “Jam! Jam!” when a good story broke, and his philosophical reflection when times were thin that “all was jam that came to the rollers.” Hopkins had an excellent nose for jam, and so it was that he stopped suddenly in the middle of analyzing for Bartholomew’s benefit the various sensation seekers crowding the little Kentish village hall. Stopped dead and stared. Because, between the flyaway hats of two bright sensationalists, he could see a man’s calm face which was much more sensational than anything in that building.
“Seen something?” Bart asked.
“Have I seen something!” Hopkins slid from the end of the form, just as the coroner sat down and tapped for silence. “Keep my place,” he whispered, and disappeared out of the building. He entered it again at the back door, expertly pushed his way to the place he wanted, and sat down. The man turned his head to view this gate-crasher.
“Morning, Inspector,” said Hopkins.
The Inspector looked his disgust.
“I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t need the money,” Hopkins said, vox humana.
The coroner tapped again for silence, but the Inspector’s face relaxed.
Presently, under cover of the bustle of Potticary’s arrival to give evidence, Hopkins said, “What is Scotland Yard doing here, Inspector?”
“Looking on.”
“I see. Just studying inquests as an institution. Crime slack these days?” As the Inspector showed no sign of being drawn: “Oh, have a heart, Inspector. What’s in the wind? Is there something phony about the death? Suspicions, eh? If you don’t want to talk for publication I’m the original locked casket.”
“You’re the original camel fly.”
“Oh, well, look at the hides I have to get through!” This produced a grin and nothing else. “Look here. Just tell me one thing, Inspector. Is this inquest going to be adjourned?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Thank you. That tells me everything,” Hopkins said, half sarcastic, half serious, as he made his way out again. He prised Mrs. Pitts’s Albert away from the wall where he clung limpetlike by the window, persuaded him that two shillings were better than a partial view of dull proceedings, and sent him to Liddlestone with a telegram which set the Clarion office buzzing. Then he went back to Bart.
“Something wrong,” he said out of the corner of his mouth in answer to Bart’s eyebrows. “The Yard’s here. That’s Grant, behind the scarlet hat. Inquest going to be adjourned. Spot the murderer!”
“Not here,” Bart said, having considered the gathering.
“No,” agreed Jammy. “Who’s the chap in the flannel bags?”
“Boyfriend.”
“Thought the boyfriend was Jay Harmer.”
“Was. This one newer.”
“ ‘Love nest killing’?”
“Wouldn’t mind betting.”
“Supposed to be cold, I thought?”
“Yes. So they say. Fooled them, seemingly. Good enough reason for murder, I should think.”
The evidence was of the most formal kind—the finding and identification of the body—and as soon as that had been offered the coroner brought the proceeding
s to an end, and fixed no date for resumption.
Hopkins had decided that, the Clay death being apparently no accident, and Scotland Yard not being able so far to make any arrest, the person to cultivate was undoubtedly the man in the flannel bags. Tisdall, his name was. Bart said that every newspaper man in England had tried to interview him the previous day (Hopkins being then en route from the poker murder) but that he had been exceptionally tough. Called them ghouls, and vultures, and rats, and other things less easy of specification, and had altogether seemed unaware of the standing of the Press. No one was rude to the Press anymore—not with impunity, that was.
But Hopkins had great faith in his power to seduce the human mind.
“Your name Tisdall, by any chance?” he asked casually, “finding” himself alongside the young man in the crowded procession to the door.
The man’s face hardened into instant enmity.
“Yes, it is,” he said aggressively.
“Not old Tom Tisdall’s nephew?”
The face cleared swiftly.
“Yes. Did you know Uncle Tom?”
“A little,” admitted Hopkins, no whit dismayed to find that there really was a Tom Tisdall.
“You seem to know about my giving up the Stannaway?”
“Yes, someone told me,” Hopkins said, wondering if the Stannaway was a house, or what? “What are you doing now?”
By the time they had reached the door, Hopkins had established himself. “Can I give you a lift somewhere? Come and have lunch with me?”
A pip! In half an hour he’d have a front-page story. And this was the baby they said was difficult! No, there was no doubt of it: he, James Brooke Hopkins, was the greatest newspaper man in the business.
“Sorry, Mr. Hopkins,” said Grant’s pleasant voice at his shoulder. “I don’t want to spoil your party, but Mr. Tisdall has an appointment with me.” And, since Tisdall betrayed his astonishment and Hopkins his instant putting two and two together, he added, “We’re hoping he can help us.”
“I don’t understand,” Tisdall was beginning. And Hopkins, seeing that Tisdall was unaware of Grant’s identity, rushed in with glad maliciousness.
“That is Scotland Yard,” he said. “Inspector Grant. Never had an unsolved crime to his name.”
“I hope you write my obituary,” Grant said.
“I hope I do!” the journalist said, with fervor.
And then they noticed Tisdall. His face was like parchment, dry and old and expressionless. Only the pulse beating hard at his temple suggested a living being. Journalist and detective stood looking in mutual astonishment at so unexpected a result of Hopkins’s announcement. And then, seeing the man’s knees beginning to sag, Grant took him hastily by the arm.
“Here! Come and sit down. My car is just here.”
He edged the apparently blind Tisdall through the dawdling, chattering crowd, and pushed him into the rear seat of a dark touring car.
“Westover,” he said to the chauffeur, and got in beside Tisdall.
As they went at snail’s pace towards the high road, Grant saw Hopkins still standing where they had left him. That Jammy Hopkins should stay without moving for more than three consecutive minutes argued that he was being given furiously to think. From now on—the Inspector sighed—the camel fly would be a bloodhound.
And the Inspector, too, had food for his wits. He had been called in the previous night by a worried County Constabulary who had no desire to make themselves ridiculous by making mountains out of molehills, but who found themselves unable to explain away satisfactorily one very small, very puzzling obstacle to their path. They had all viewed the obstacle, from the Chief Constable down to the sergeant who had taken charge on the beach, had been rude about each other’s theories, and had in the end agreed on only one thing: that they wanted to push the responsibility on to someone else’s shoulders. It was all very well to hang on to your own crime, and the kudos of a solution, when there was a crime. But to decide in cold blood to announce a crime, on the doubtful evidence of that common little object on the table; to risk, not the disgrace of failure, but the much worse slings of ridicule, was something they could not find it in their hearts to do. And so Grant had canceled his seat at the Criterion and had journeyed down to Westover. He had inspected the stumbling block, listened with patience to their theories and with respect to the police surgeon’s story, and had gone to bed in the small hours with a great desire to interview Robert Tisdall. And now here was Tisdall, beside him, still speechless and half-fainting because he had been confronted without warning by Scotland Yard. Yes, there was a case; no doubt of it. Well, there couldn’t be any questioning with Cork in the driving seat, so until they got back to Westover Tisdall might be left to recover. Grant took a flask from the car pocket and offered it to him. Tisdall took it shakily but made good use of it. Presently he apologized for his weakness.
“I don’t know what went wrong. This affair has been an awful shock to me. I haven’t been sleeping. Keep going over things in my mind. Or rather, my mind keeps doing it; I can’t stop it. And then, at the inquest it seemed—I say, is something not right? I mean, was it not a simple drowning? Why did they postpone the end of the inquest?”
“There are one or two things that the police find puzzling.”
“As what, for instance?”
“I think we won’t discuss it until we get to Westover.”
“Is anything I say to be used in evidence against me?” The smile was wry but the intention was good.
“You took the words out of my mouth,” the Inspector said lightly, and silence fell between them.
By the time they reached the Chief Constable’s room in the County Police offices, Tisdall was looking normal if a little worn. In fact, so normal did he look that when Grant said, “This is Mr. Tisdall,” the Chief Constable, who was a genial soul except when someone jumped in his pocket out hunting, almost shook hands with him, but recollected himself before any harm was done.
“Howdyudo. Harrump!” He cleared his throat to give himself time. Couldn’t do that, of course. My goodness, no. Fellow suspected of murder. Didn’t look it, no, upon his soul he didn’t. But there was no telling these days. The most charming people were—well, things he hadn’t known till lately existed. Very sad. But couldn’t shake hands, of course. No, definitely not. “Harrump! Fine morning! Bad for racing, of course. Going very hard. But good for the holiday makers. Mustn’t be selfish in our pleasures. You a racing man? Going to Goodwood? Oh, well, perhaps—No. Well, I expect you and—and our friend here—” somehow one didn’t want to rub in the fact of Grant’s inspector-ship. Nice-looking chap. Well brought up, and all that—“would like to talk in peace. I’m going to lunch. The Ship,” he added, for Grant’s benefit, in case the Inspector wanted him. “Not that the food’s very good there, but it’s a self-respecting house. Not like these Marine things. Like to get steak and potatoes without going through sun lounges for them.” And the Chief Constable took himself out.
“A Freedy Lloyd part,” Tisdall said.
Grant looked up appreciatively from pulling forward a chair.
“You’re a theater fan.”
“I was a fan of most things.”
Grant’s mind focused on the peculiarity of the phrase. “Why ‘was’?” he asked.
“Because I’m broke. You need money to be a fan.”
“You won’t forget that formula about ‘anything you say,’ will you?”
“No, thanks. But it doesn’t make any difference. I can only tell you the truth. If you draw wrong deductions from it then that’s your fault, not mine.”
“So it’s I who am on trial. A nice point. I appreciate it. Well, try me out. I want to know how you were living in the same house with a woman whose name you didn’t know? You did tell the County Police that, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I expect it sounds incredible. Silly, too. But it’s quite simple. You see, I was standing on the pavement opposite the Gaiety one night, very late, wonde
ring what to do. I had fivepence in my pocket, and that was fivepence too much, because I had aimed at having nothing at all. And I was wondering whether to have a last go at spending the fivepence (there isn’t much one can do with fivepence) or to cheat, and forget about the odd pennies. So—”
“Just a moment. You might explain to a dullard just why these five pennies should have been important.”
“They were the end of a fortune, you see. Thirty thousand. I inherited it from my uncle. My mother’s brother. My real name is Stannaway, but Uncle Tom asked that I should take his name with the money. I didn’t mind. The Tisdalls were a much better lot than the Stannaways, anyhow. Stamina and ballast and all that. If I’d been a Tisdall I wouldn’t be broke now, but I’m nearly all Stannaway. I’ve been the perfect fool, the complete Awful Warning. I was in an architect’s office when I inherited the money, living in rooms and just making do; and it went to my head to have what seemed more than I could ever spend. I gave up my job and went to see all the places I’d wanted to see and never hoped to. New York and Hollywood and Budapest and Rome and Capri and God knows where else. I came back to London with about two thousand, meaning to bank it and get a job. It would have been easy enough two years before—I mean, to bank the money. I hadn’t anyone to help spend it then. But in those two years I had gathered a lot of friends all over the world, and there were never less than a dozen of them in London at the same time. So I woke up one morning to find that I was down to my last hundred. It was a bit of a shock. Like cold water. I sat down and thought for the first time for two years. I had the choice of two things: sponging—you can live in luxury anywhere in the world’s capitals for six months if you’re a good sponger: I know; I supported dozens of that sort—and disappearing. Disappearing seemed easier. I could drop out quite easily. People would just say, ‘Where’s Bobby Tisdall these days?’ and they’d just take it for granted that I was in some of the other corners of the world where their sort went, and that they’d run into me one of these days. I was supposed to be suffocatingly rich, you see, and it was easier to drop out and leave them thinking of me like that than to stay and be laughed at when the truth began to dawn on them. I paid my bills, and that left me with fifty-seven pounds. I thought I’d have one last gamble then, and see if I could pick up enough to start me off on the new level. So I had thirty pounds—fifteen each way; that’s the bit of Tisdall in me—on Red Rowan in the Eclipse. He finished fifth. Twenty-odd pounds isn’t enough to start anything except a barrow. There was nothing for it but tramping. I wasn’t much put out at the thought of tramping—it would be a change—but you can’t tramp with twenty-seven pounds in the bank, so I decided to blue it all in one grand last night. I promised myself that I’d finish up without a penny in my pocket. Then I’d pawn my evening things for some suitable clothes and hit the road. What I hadn’t reckoned with was that you can’t pawn things in the west-end on a Saturday midnight. And you can’t take to the road in evening things without being conspicuous. So I was standing there, as I said, feeling resentful about these five pennies and wondering what I was to do about my clothes and a place to sleep. I was standing by the traffic lights at the Aldwych, just before you turn around into Lancaster Place, when a car was pulled up by the red lights. Chris was in it, alone—”