Swann shook his head contemptuously.
"He had nothing to do with it —hadn't the guts. He only wanted to save his own skin. But speaking of skin," the sick man's lips drew into a grimace, "we come back to the purse that was found by the body. Believe it or not, that unidentified purse was made of the finest leather in the world . . . tanned human hide."
A moment of absolute silence.
"So you see," Swann resumed in that same vein of bitter satire, "you've only to lay your hands on a character perverted enough to possess such an article, link him up with a few other pieces of evidence that got mislaid — and you have the killer." Again that sardonic facial tremor. "After fifteen years ... it should be relatively easy."
"Don't!" Paul said. "For God's sake. I need your help . . . all you can give me."
Swann's expression changed. He gazed at Paul almost despairingly.
"Well, if you must ... let me tell you more about the two main witnesses — who identified the wrong man, not the right one — Edward Collins and Louisa Burt.
"When Burt and Collins came to headquarters to claim their reward I was on duty. Now as I've told you I had my serious doubts about this pair —not so much Collins, who was a soft mark with good enough intentions, as Louisa Burt, who, for a seventeen-year-old girl, seemed to me . . . well, a character worth watching. I put them in a side room to wait and while they waited I was next door working at my desk and, because of an acoustic arrangement we had, was able to hear everything they said. I wrote it down too. At first they didn't say much. Then Collins, who sounded scared, said: 'Will we get the money?' We'll get it, Ed, don't worry,' Burt answered, cool as you please, and she added: We might do even better.' What do you mean?' he said. She laughed. 'I've got something up my sleeve that might sur-
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prise you.' That seemed to bother Collins. He didn't speak for quite a while, then, in a kind of parrot voice, as though he'd repeated it often before, he said: 'Mathry was the man, wasn't he, Louisa?' 'Shut up, will you,' she came at him. 'It's too late to back down now. We didn't do no harm. With all that evidence they would have done for Mathry anyhow. And after all he didn't get hung. Don't you understand, you fool, it don't pay to go against the police. Besides, things may come out of this better than you ever dreamed. I've 'ad a notion them last few days,' she went on in a kind of far-away voice. I'll live like a lady yet, Ed, maybe like a queen, with servants to wait on me and wash the dishes and empty the slops. Just let me take my chance and I'll spite the whole world and never iron another shirt.'"
Swann paused for breath. When he resumed he looked straight at Paul.
"That was the end of the conversation. But I'd heard enough to confirm my worst suspicions. Burt, out of her own mouth, had given the show away. She had seen the murderer and come out with his description. When this didn't quite fit Mathry, she obligingly shifted her position. There would be a lot of probing and cross-questioning at headquarters and it suited her to fall in with it — for everything pointed to Mathry being the guilty man. Then she wanted to stand well with the authorities, to be the little prima donna, right in the front of the picture, and of course to get the reward. It was her influence that swung Collins. Maybe she actually persuaded herself it was Mathry she saw ... it can happen with that type. And then, when it was all over, headlines, publicity, praise, the whole peepshow, and she had time to think, she began to wonder about all the things that hadn't come out at the trial and to ask herself if, after all, it wasn't somebody else she had seen, a vaguely familiar figure, that she'd noticed around Eldon on her way to and from the laundry. Suddenly it came to her ... a possibility of who this man might be ... a chance . . . and with it a sense of golden opportunity.
"I ought to have gone to the Chief, but I didn't ... I'd badgered him too much in the early stages of the case for him to want to listen to me now, besides, he'd reprimanded me for
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slackness the week before and we weren't on the best of terms. So for a while I chewed on what I knew; then, in the end, I went for advice to a lawyer named Walter Gillett. Now Gillett was a man I liked and trusted, and I'm sure he liked me too. What do you think he told me to do? To keep clear of the whole business. He knew I was in bad standing in the force. Maybe because he knew I was drinking he didn't fully credit the new evidence I gave him. He said: 'Jimmy, for God's sake don't bring a hornet's nest about your ears.' And what did I do? My mind was in such a state of tension and confusion, I went on a blind, came on duty soused and . . . well . . . you know the rest. After I came out of quod I didn't give a damn for anything. . . ."
Swann's words had gradually grown less and less audible. Now interrupted by a long spell of coughing they ceased altogether. He made a gesture that indicated there was nothing more he wished to say.
Rigid and motionless, Paul broke the silence.
"Are they still here . . . Burt and Collins?"
"You'll never get hold of Collins — he married years ago and emigrated to New Zealand. But Burt is still here . . . yes, Burt . . . little Louisa Burt, my God, what a character . . . she is the key to the whole enigma." Swann paused. "There's just one chance in a million you might get something out of her."
"Where can 1 find her?" Paul exclaimed.
"She works for a highly respected family . . . another proof of how she can gull decent people."
From beneath his pillow Swann took a scrap of paper on which were written certain particulars. In silence he handed it to Paul.
"There!" he said, in a flat voice. "Though it won't do you any good. Now let me be. I've done enough for you and I'll do no more. I feel damned bad and want to get some sleep."
He stretched himself on his side and drew the bedclothes to his chin, a gesture which indicated that the interview was over.
Paul got to his feet. His voice was charged with feeling.
"Thank you," he said, simply. "I'll come again soon."
With a last glance at that wasted and impassive figure, he
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swung round and left the ward. As he went down the stairs his heart was bounding with a new hope. Swann had helped him beyond all his expectation. Yet somehow he could not escape the impression that the sick man was still holding something back, something he was unwilling, afraid almost, to reveal. He told himself he must discover it on his next visit to the infirmary.
CHAPTER XII
ON the following evening, after work, Paul met Mark by appointment outside the Bonanza — the library assistant had telephoned him earlier in the day. Boulia seemed pleased to see him, and when they had shaken hands, he exclaimed eagerly:
"We're making a start tonight?"
"Yes," Paul said. "What about something to eat first?"
"No thanks. I had a snack at five. But how about you?"
"I'm all right."
"I've hardly been able to wait, since I phoned you," Mark broke out excitedly, as they moved off along the thronged pavement. "Tell me about Burt."
Paul was silent. Boulia's mercurial temperament, his tendency to treat the matter light-heartedly, as a gay and thrilling adventure, made him question the wisdom of having asked him to accompany him. Yet the real and generous help given by the other had more or less imposed this obligation on Paul. And so, after a moment, he answered:
"Burt is employed as a domestic servant, hasn't turned out too well, I gather. This is her evening off. I've a fair idea what she looks like and where to find her."
"Good work," Mark exclaimed, and added, "How did you leave Swann?"
Paul shook his head, glancing at him sideways, Boulia lost his effusiveness.
"Worse?" he murmured.
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"I called at the hospital lunch time. He was too ill to have visitors."
After that, they walked through the park in silence, passing the bandstand, shuttered for the winter and strangely spectral in the dusk, skirting the ornamental pond, reaching the higher northern slopes a
bove the Municipal Art Galleries and the Natural History Museum. They were now on Porlock Hill, one of the best sections of the city, spaced with handsome mansions, laid out in broad terraces and bordered by avenues of tall chestnut trees. Adjoining this fine residential area there was, however, a queer survival of an older period — a cramped little colony of back streets and cobbled alleys composed of converted mews, a number of small shops, and one public house: The Royal Oak.
"That's it," Paul said, as the sign became visible. "I needn't warn you to be careful. If you don't know what to say, just say nothing."
They crossed the lane towards the yellow light shining from the leaded windows, and pushed through the swing doors of the tavern.
The saloon was old and dingily genteel, upholstered in tarnished plush, with frayed lamp shades, reproductions of racehorses upon the walls, and a cracked gilt mirror behind the curved bar. It had begun to fill up tor the evening, mainly with the local tradespeople and a few belated artisans, as Paul led the way to one of the fumed oak tables and, having ordered two glasses of ale, cautiously surveyed the room.
"Not here yet." He turned to Mark. "We may be out of luck tonight for all I know."
He had no sooner spoken when the doors swung again and a woman entered and walked, with the air of a habitue, to a corner booth. Paul guessed at once, with a queer tightening of his throat, that it was Louisa Burt. She seemed about thirty, rather heavy about the hips and bust, wearing a costume of cheap plaid material, with yellow gloves and a fancy handbag. She was, indeed, so completely ordinary, so obviously a domestic servant on her evening out, that Paul, though his heart was beating fast, sat momentarily confounded.
She settled herself, ordered a small gin and, after fussing with
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the contents of her handbag, explored the saloon with her eyes. Paul, meeting her gaze, smiled slightly. She immediately turned away, as if insulted, but two minutes later, though with an offended air, she was again looking in their direction. This time Paul rose and crossed over to her booth. Nothing could have been more foreign to his character than this approach, but, with a new maturity, he did it perfectly. Easily, yet with the correct note of ingratiating politeness, he said:
"Good evening."
There was a pause.
"Are you addressing me?"
"Yes. If you're alone perhaps we might join you."
"I'm not alone, not really. I'm waiting on a friend."
"Oh!"
"Of course he might be detained tonight, working late. He's a very important man."
"Then he probably will be detained. And his loss will be our gain. Have a drink?"
"No, not really. I'm not in the habit. Still, if you insist."
Paul signalled across his shoulder to Mark, who came over to the booth carrying Paul's tumbler and his own.
"Mav I introduce mv companion?'
"Pleased to meet you I am sure. I forgot my visiting cards but my name is Miss Burt."
As they sat down beside her she drew back slightly, arranging her skirt in a ladylike manner; then, crooking her little finger, she emptied her glass.
"Now it's my treat, Miss Burt," Mark said. "What will you have?"
"Well nothing was further from my thoughts. Gin."
"Mother's ruin." Mark smiled pleasantly.
She did not smile back. Her eyes, of a light dolly blue, kept moving over them in shallow, yet appraising inquiry. Her face was pale and of a coarse texture, with large pores, thickly powdered, on her snub nose. Her plump childish cheeks, curiously indrawn at the corners of the mouth, gave her thin moist lips a strange sort of smirk, persistent, yet watchful, and utterly in-
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congruous, since her expression was quite devoid of humour. She had practically no forehead.
"Well, here's luck," Paul exclaimed, when her drink arrived. He raised his measure of beer.
"You know," Mark went on, "there's nothing beats a nice convivial evening. Amongst friends you understand. Cheers you up. Makes you feel good. Breaks the old routine."
"I got to be back at nine tonight." She preened herself warn-ingly, and with all the conscious dignity of sex. "I couldn't walk out nowhere. Not tonight."
"Ah, well," Paul said easily. "We'll have better luck next time. We'll be properly acquainted then."
She digested this, stared from one to the other.
"You are perfect gentlemen, I must say. Some does rush you, something cruel." Her eyes came back to Paul, not without interest. "Haven't you been with me before, somewheres?"
"No," Paul said. "I'm afraid not."
"That's a pleasure that's still in store for him." Mark laughed agreeably.
Keenly alert, Paul kept the conversation flowing, playing on Burt's vanity, deferring to her affectations, accepting with admiration her explanation that she was "lady housekeeper" in charge of a large mansion on Porlock Hill. After several drinks she began to lose something of her watchfulness, her air of gentility intensified, and suddenly a flood of self-pity welled into her glassy eyes.
"It's nice to meet two perfect gents. Not like some I could mention, only I wouldn't, being a perfect lady myself, though I do say it as perhaps shouldn't. I was brought up very strict, you understand, educated by the nuns in a French convent. Oh, it was lovely there in the seminely, so quiet and peaceful, and the nuns was such dears, they made a regular pet of me. It was Louisa this, and Louisa that, all the time I can assure you, especially from the reverend mother — she couldn't do enough for me, from breakfast in bed to hand-stitched lace on all my negligees. Of course, me being half French myself made a difference, they all knew what I would have been if only I'd had my rights, and p'raps
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they guessed the terrible time what was in store tor me." She broke off, searching their faces humidly. "Does that surprise you?"
Paul shook his head gravelv, thinking at the same time, "Dear God, what a natural-born liar!"
"If you only knew." She clutched at Paul's arm. "What I've went through! Mv father was in the armv, not the Salvation, the reg'lar army, a colonel. He used to beat my mother, the brute, especially when he came home boozed, late Saturday nights. I wanted to run away. The footlights always was mv great ambition, to have all them people watching and admiring me. Oh, if only I'd had my chance."
"And didn't you?" Mark prompted, sympathetically.
She shook her head, her heavy lids veiling a sullen gleam.
"Something happened. I only done right, mind you. I only told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. And what did I get for it? A few quid, what went in six months."
"That's always the way," Paul agreed, with assumed bitterness. "You do somebodv a good turn and get no thanks for it."
"I didn't want no thanks!" she burst out. "I only wanted to be recognised proper . . . have my place. I didn't expect to have to be a serv ... I mean a lady housekeeper for the rest of my born days."
Paul had the wit to keep silent but Mark, in his excitement, leaned forward.
"Why don't you tell us about it?" he pressed. "Perhaps we could help you."
There was a sharp pause. Paul bit his lip and lowered his gaze. Burt looked at Boulia, suddenlv seemed to recollect herself. The angry flush faded from her plump cheeks. She glanced at the clock above the bar, finished her drink, and got to her feet.
"Do you see the time? 1 got to go now."
Masking his chagrin, Paul helped her gather up her things, paid for the drinks, and escorted her through the swing doors.
It's such a lovelv night." He glanced up at the stars. "Perhaps we could see you home?"
She hesitated, then, somewhat grudgingly, consented.
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"Well . . . only to the gate, mind you."
They left the cobbled alley and set out along the dry, deserted, suburban road, Burt picking her way, on high heels, between Boulia and Paul. More than ever Paul exerted himself to please. Pre
sently they reached a broad avenue, screened by a double row of topped lime trees and flanked by red tiled villas standing in their own gardens. Opposite the end house Burt drew up.
"Well," she said, "this is it."
"What a lovely mansion," Paul said.
"Yes." Burt was flattered. "I'm with the Oswalds . . . most refined people."
"Well, naturally." Paul spoke persuasively. "May we see you next Wednesday?"
Burt hesitated, but only for a moment.
"All right," she said. "Same time, at the Oak."
"Splendid."
Paul removed his hat, and with great politeness held out his hand. As he did so, the front door of the villa opened and an elderly gentleman came out, bareheaded, smoking a cigar, and carrying a few letters. He strolled towards the gate and opened it, evidently making for the pillar box at the end of the road. In the darkness it was impossible fully to discern his features, but Paul saw that his expression was abstracted and benevolent, his hair silver grey. As he passed the little group he noticed Burt and, in a pleasant voice, remarked:
"Good evening, Louisa."
"Good evening, sir," she answered, in a humble voice, a change of tone to respectful servility which was almost comic.
When he had gone, leaving behind an agreeable odour of cigar smoke, Burt, in some discomfiture took leave of her two companions. Entering the drive, she followed the service path on the left, and Was lost behind a screen of laurel bushes. As Paul and Boulia turned away they heard the slam of the back door.
For a full five minutes, while they tramped down the avenue, there was a silence between them; then in an apologetic tone Boulia said:
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"I'm sorry. Mathry. She was just beginning to talk . . . when I sent her back into her shell."
Paul compressed his lips on a sharp reply.
CHAPTER XIII
WHEN Paul went up to his attic room it was nearly eleven o'clock. He could not sleep. Pacing the confined space between the rickety wash-stand and the truckle bed, scarcely hearing through the thin walls the inevitable nocturnal noises of his fellow lodgers — the Parsee medical student, playing his radio on the floor below, James Crocket, the accountant's clerk brushing his boots and whistling mournfully next door, old Mr. Garvin, the retired auctioneer, creaking downstairs to refill his ewer — he struggled with the excitement to which the evening had strung him.