Giles looked up. ‘What is it? Oh, that! Yes, I’ve seen it. There’s some more of that correspondence – oh, you’ve got it!’
The Superintendent was holding a badly worded request for five hundred pounds, written in Kenneth’s nervous fist. The letter stated with exquisite simplicity that Kenneth was broke, engaged to be married, and must have funds to pay off a few debts. Appended to it was a typewritten sheet, headed Copy, stating with equal simplicity that Arnold had no intention of giving or lending a feckless idiot five hundred pence, let alone pounds. Further search in the file brought to light a second letter from Kenneth, scrawled on a half-sheet of notepaper. It was laconic in the extreme, and expressed an ardent desire on the writer’s part to wring his brother’s bloody neck.
‘Very spirited,’ said the Superintendent non-committally. ‘I should like to keep these letters, please.’
‘Do, by all means,’ said Giles. ‘Particularly the last one.’
‘Kenneth Vereker is, I take it, a client of yours?’
‘He is.’
‘Well, Mr Carrington, we won’t hedge. You’re no fool, and you can see as clearly as I do that his movements on Saturday night will have to be accounted for. But I’m no fool either, and we shall get along a good deal better if I tell you here and now that these letters don’t make me want to go after a warrant for this young man’s arrest at once. A man who makes up his mind to kill someone isn’t very likely to write and tell his victim that he’d like to do it.’
Privately Giles placed no such confidence in his cousin’s level-headedness, but he only nodded, and said: ‘Just so.’
The Superintendent folded the three letters and tucked them into his pocket-book. His eyes twinkled a little. ‘But if he’s anything like his sister – well, that alters things,’ he said. ‘Now let’s take a look at this memorandum.’
He picked it up as he spoke and opened it. Giles began to replace the papers in the drawers. ‘Hullo!’ said Hannasyde suddenly. ‘What do you make of this, Mr Carrington?’
Giles took the book, and found it open at a page of figures. In the first column were pencilled various dates; against these were set names, apparently of different firms; in the third column were certain sums of money, each with a note of interrogation beside it, and a counter-sum, heavily underlined. At the bottom, each line of figures had been totalled, and the difference, which amounted to three hundred and fifty pounds, not only underlined, but wholly encircled by a thick black pencil-mark.
‘John Dawlish Ltd,’ said Giles slowly, reading one of the names aloud. ‘Aren’t those the people who make drills? These look to me like Company accounts.’
‘They look to me as though someone has been monkeying around with the accounts, and Arnold Vereker found it out,’ said Hannasyde. ‘I think we’ll step round to the Shan Hills office, if you don’t mind, Mr Carrington.’
‘Not at all,’ replied Giles, ‘but I don’t see quite why you should want me to –’
He was interrupted by the butler, who at that moment opened the door, and stood holding it. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but Mr Carrington would like to speak to you on the telephone,’ said Taylor.
Giles looked up surprised: ‘Mr Carrington wishes to speak to me?’
‘Yes, sir. Shall I switch the call through to this room, or would you prefer to speak from the hall?’
‘No, switch it through, will you?’ Giles lifted the receiver of the desk telephone, and glanced towards Hannasyde. ‘Do you mind? – It’s my father, though what he wants, I can’t imagine. By the way, it is he who is the legal adviser to Arnold’s Company. Arnold transferred his private affairs to me, partly because we were more of an age, and partly because he and my father couldn’t hit if off, but the business remained in – Hullo, sir! ’Morning. Yes, Giles speaking.’
The Superintendent opened his note-book and began tactfully to read through the entries. He could hear a staccato quacking noise, which he rightly inferred to be the voice of Mr Carrington, Senior. It sounded irascible, he thought.
Giles’s side of the conversation was mild and soothing. He said: ‘So sorry, sir. Didn’t I tell you I should come straight to Eaton Place?… well, never mind: what’s happened?… something to do with what?’ The lazy look faded; he listened intently to the quacking noise, which went on for quite some time. Then he said: ‘All right, sir, I’ll bring him round as soon as we’ve finished here.’ The voice quacked again, and the Superintendent was almost certain that he heard the words: ‘flat-footed policemen’. However, Giles merely said: ‘In about twenty minutes, then. Good-bye,’ and laid down the receiver. He raised his eyes to the Superintendent’s face, and said: ‘My father wants to see you, Superintendent. He tells me he found a letter from Arnold Vereker waiting for him at the office this morning, which he thinks you ought to see.’
Seven
The offices of Carrington, Radclyffe & Carrington were on the first floor of a house at the bottom of Adam Street, facing down the length of Adelphi Terrace. The head of the firm occupied a large, untidy room overlooking the river through a gap in the adjacent buildings. When Giles ushered Hannasyde into this apartment on Monday morning, the head of the firm was seated at an enormous desk, completely covered with papers, muttering fiercely at the shortcomings of his fountain pen. The head of the firm was a well-preserved sixty, with grizzled and scanty hair, a ruddy complexion, and the same humorous gleam which lurked in his son’s eyes. In other respects father and son were not much alike. Giles was tall and lean, and never seemed to be in a hurry; Charles Carrington was short, and of a comfortable habit of body, and lived in a perpetual state of bustle. It was a source of surprise to those not intimately acquainted with him that he should be a lawyer. Those who knew him best were not dismayed by his odd mannerisms, or his inability to find anything. They knew that although he might convey the impression of being a fussy and rather incompetent old gentleman, he had still, at sixty, a remarkably acute intellect.
He looked up when the door opened, and, as soon as he saw his son, held up an ink-stained hand, and barked: ‘You see. What did I tell you? They always leak. What on earth should put it into your mother’s head to give me one of the infernal things when she knows perfectly well I never could stand them, and never shall – Look at this! Take the confounded thing away! Throw it out of the window – Give it to the office boy! And you needn’t tell your mother I’m not using it!’
‘All right, I won’t,’ said Giles, removing the pen. ‘This is Superintendent Hannasyde from Scotland Yard.’
‘Oh, is it?’ said Mr Carrington, carefully wiping his fingers with a piece of pink blotting-paper. ‘Good-morning. Investigating my nephew’s murder, aren’t you? Well, I wish you joy of it. Ill-conditioned young cub! Don’t stand! Don’t stand! Take a chair! Take a chair! Giles, push those deeds on to the floor, and let the Superintendent sit down.’
He began to hunt amongst the dusty heap of documents on his desk, remarking that in this office you had only to lay a thing down for a minute for it to disappear completely. The Superintendent, surveying the general disorder with an awed gaze, made a sympathetic murmur, and wondered whether there was the least hope of discovering Arnold Vereker’s letter in the welter on the desk.
But Mr Carrington, having thrown one bundle of papers at his son, with the Delphic utterances: ‘Section 35 of the Act; they’d better settle it out of court;’ and dropped two used envelopes vaguely in the direction of the waste-paper basket, pounced upon a sheet of closely written notepaper, and scowled at it, rubbing the tip of his nose with his forefinger. ‘This is it,’ he announced. ‘You’d better have it, Superintendent. May mean nothing; may mean a lot. Here, Giles, you take a look at it! What did the fellow think I could tell him that he didn’t know already? Arnold all over! Wasting my time with his rubbishy questions! But I don’t like to hear this about Tony; what’s the wretched child about to get herself entangled with this young waster? Read it!’
By this time Giles was doing so. When he c
ame to the end, he held it out to Hannasyde, saying: ‘I think this comes rather pat, don’t you?’
The letter was on office paper, but written by hand, and by a man in a raging temper. ‘Dear Uncle,’ it began, and continued abruptly: ‘What is the legal position of this firm in the case of systematic tampering with the accounts on the part of an employee? I’ve caught this damned whipper-snapper Mesurier out, and I want to prosecute, but wish to know how I stand before taking definite action. I have had him up and he has the insolence to expect me to condone it because, if you please, he is paying back what he calls the “loan” in his own good time! Does this prejudice my case, or not? Major portion of the sum stolen is still owing. Surely I have a case? Don’t reply with any sentimental drivel; the skunk has got himself engaged to that damned little fool, Antonia, and I want him exposed. Kindly give this matter your immediate attention, and advise.’
The Superintendent read this through with his usual deliberation. ‘Yes, it does come pat,’ he said. ‘You’re quite right. A bit hard on this chap Mesurier, wasn’t he?’
Mr Carrington, who was once more hunting through the litter on his desk, temporarily abandoned his new search, and swung his chair round so that he faced Hannasyde. ‘Hard? Infernally vindictive, sir, that’s what my nephew Arnold is – was!’ He paused, and added with a growl: ‘De mortuis nil nisi bonum,’ as a sort of general absolution. ‘But I never in my life met a fellow with a worse temper, or worse manners, or a worse heart, or a more obstinate, pig-headed –’
‘He wasn’t as bad as all that, sir,’ objected Giles.
‘Don’t interrupt,’ said Mr Carrington sternly. He transferred his attention to Hannasyde. ‘You can keep that letter. You look a sensible man, as far as I can judge. I’ve no desire to get this Mesurier fellow into trouble, but I’ve still less desire to see you Yard men barking up what I trust is the wrong tree. I’m not acting for that benighted young nephew of mine – though why I call him my nephew I don’t know: he isn’t – and thank God for it! But from what I know of him – Yes, what is it?’
A clerk had tapped at the door, and entered. He said in a low voice: ‘For Mr Giles, sir.’
‘Well?’ said Giles, turning his head. ‘Anything urgent?’
‘Mr Kenneth Vereker has called, sir, and would be glad if you could spare him a few minutes. He says it is very urgent.’
‘Tell him I’m engaged at the moment, but if he cares to wait, I’ll see him later.’
Hannasyde craned forward. ‘I wonder if you would mind if I saw Mr Kenneth Vereker?’ he asked.
Giles’s and his father’s eyes met for an instant. Charles Carrington said briefly: ‘Tell Mr Vereker that Superintendent Hannasyde is here and would like to see him.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The clerk went out.
Two minutes later Kenneth walked in, dressed in disreputable grey flannel trousers, a shirt with a soft collar and a flowing tie, and an old tweed coat. A plume of dark hair fell over one eyebrow and the eyes themselves were bright, and inquisitive, and alert. ‘Hullo, Uncle! Hullo, Giles!’ he said airily. ‘Where’s the lamb-like policeman? Good Lord, I don’t see anything lamb-like about you! Another of Tony’s lies! I’ve come to the conclusion I’d better reserve my defence, by the way. Saw it in the News of the World yesterday, and it seemed to me a good idea.’
‘I wish,’ said Mr Carrington testily, ‘that you would refrain from walking into my office looking like a third-rate artist from Chelsea!’
‘Why?’ asked Kenneth, interested.
‘Because I don’t like it!’ replied Mr Carrington, floored. ‘And nor do I like that effeminate tie!’
‘If it comes to that I don’t like yours,’ said Kenneth. ‘I think it’s a ghastly tie, but I shouldn’t have said so if you hadn’t started on mine, because I believe in the Rights of the Individual. But as a matter of fact it’s about my clothes that I’m here, more or less.’ He turned to Hannasyde and said affably: ‘You don’t mind if I get my business done first, do you?’
‘Not at all,’ answered Hannasyde, on whom, for all his apparently disinterested attitude, not one gesture or inflexion of the voice had been lost. ‘If you would like to speak to Mr Carrington alone, I can wait outside.’
‘Oh, lord, no! It isn’t private!’ Kenneth assured him. ‘It’s only about Arnold’s money. I am the heir, aren’t I, Giles? Damn it, I must be! He can’t have upset Father’s Will. Well, can I have some of it in advance? I must have some new shirts, for one thing, and I can’t get them on tick since Arnold said he wouldn’t be responsible for my debts, blast him! Also, Maxton’s have sent me a stinker to say if I don’t settle their account they will have to take steps. And if taking steps means jug, I can’t possibly be jugged for at least another fortnight, because I’m working on a picture. So do you mind coughing up some of the needful?’
It was quite impossible to stem this tide of disastrous eloquence. After one quick, warning frown, Giles abandoned his attempt, and heard his client out in silence. Mr Charles Carrington, his elbows on the arms of his chair, and his fingertips lightly touching, sat watching the Superintendent, quite unperturbed. When his nephew paused for breath, he turned his head, and said with something of his son’s mildness: ‘How much do you want, Kenneth?’
‘I want five hundred pounds,’ replied Kenneth promptly. ‘Three hundred is absolutely urgent, and if it won’t run to five, I could make three do. But I want a hundred to buy a ring with, and another hundred for splurging about. I can buy a ring for a hundred, can’t I, Giles?’
‘Several, I should think,’ replied Giles.
‘Must be diamonds,’ explained Kenneth. ‘Large, flashy ones. You know: the kind of thing which makes you want to vomit. It’s for Violet. I haven’t given her one yet, and that’s the deluded wench’s taste. I wouldn’t put it above her to hanker after a ruby tiara once I touch Arnold’s millions, bless her vulgar little heart!’
Giles intervened. ‘We’ll talk it over later. I can lend you some money to tide you over. Is that all you came about?’
‘That’s enough, isn’t it?’ said Kenneth. ‘Murgatroyd’s got it into her head that the bailiffs will storm the place at any moment. I can’t see what on earth it matters as long as they don’t get in our way, but she won’t listen to reason, and, as a matter of fact, I daresay they would be a bit of a nuisance. Because we’ve only got one sitting-room, you know.’
‘All right, I’ll come along this evening and arrange something,’ promised Giles. ‘Meanwhile Superintendent Hannasyde wants to ask you some questions.’
‘I just want to know what your movements were on Saturday evening,’ said Hannasyde pleasantly.
‘I know you do, but according to Giles you won’t believe a word of my story,’ replied Kenneth. ‘My point is that you can’t disprove it. If you’ve got any sense you won’t try. You’ll simply arrest my sister, and be done with it. I call her behaviour fishy in the extreme. Moreover, any girl who gets engaged to a human wen like Mesurier deserves to be hanged. What did you make of him, Giles?’
‘I hardly know him. Try to stick to the point.’
‘Well, I think he’s a blister,’ said Kenneth frankly.
Hannasyde said patiently: ‘May I hear this story which I can’t disprove.’
‘Sorry, I’d forgotten you for the moment,’ said Kenneth, and seating himself on a corner of the desk which happened to be free from litter, related with unexpected conciseness the history of his movements on Saturday. ‘And that’s that,’ he concluded, delving in his pocket for an evil-looking meerschaum. ‘My fiancée says it’s such a rotten story you’re bound to believe it. She ought to know. She reads about seven detective thrillers a week, so she’s pretty well up on crime.’
Hannasyde looked at him rather searchingly. ‘You don’t remember the picture-theatre you visited or even what street it is in, or what the film was about, Mr Vereker?’
‘No,’ said Kenneth, unrolling an oilskin tobacco pouch, and beginning, under his uncle’s fe
rmenting stare, to fill the meerschaum.
‘That argues a singularly bad memory, doesn’t it?’
‘Vile,’ agreed Kenneth. ‘But anyone’ll tell you I’ve no memory.’
‘I’m surprised that with such a memory you are able to tell me so exactly what you did that evening,’ said Hannasyde gently.
‘Oh, I learned that off by heart,’ replied Kenneth, putting his pipe in his mouth, and restoring the pouch to his pocket.
Superintendent Hannasyde was not a man to show surprise readily, but this ingenuous explanation bereft him momentarily of speech. Giles’s slow voice filled the gap: ‘Don’t try to be funny, I implore you. What do you mean?’
Charles Carrington, whose attention had been successfully switched from the meerschaum, watched Kenneth with an air of impersonal interest. ‘Yes, what do you mean?’ he inquired.
‘Just what I said,’ responded Kenneth, striking a match. Between puffs, he continued: ‘After Giles had gone, last night, it dawned on me that I’d better make sure I didn’t forget what I did on Saturday. So I wrote it all down, and learned it by heart in case I lost the book of words.’
The Superintendent, recovering, put rather a stern question: ‘Do you remember anything at all of what you did, Mr Vereker, or are you merely favouring me with a recitation?’
‘Of course I remember,’ said Kenneth impatiently. ‘You can’t go on repeating a saga without remembering it. If you mean, Did I make it up? Certainly not! I should have thought out a much better story than that. Something really classy. As a matter of fact, my sister and I concocted a beauty, but we decided against using it, because of the mental strain. If you make a thing up you keep forgetting some of the ramifications, and then you’re in the soup.’
‘I’m glad you realise that,’ said Hannasyde dryly. ‘Will your memory go back as far as the third of June?’
‘What’s to-day? asked Kenneth, willing to oblige, but cautious.