The Woman in the Wardrobe Page 10

  “You mean she’s covering up for Paxton?”

  “Exactly. And if Paxton’s confession is true—which it probably is—I think I’d be willing to bet on what that Past is.”

  Rambler joined them.

  “I’ve just spoken to Winnidge:—said I was speaking from the Station.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s no use. He says the taxi’s out of order.”

  “Excellent!” Verity rubbed his hands and rose.

  “The Directory gives his address as Number 2 East Bay.”

  “That’s between here and Carrington,” said Jackson. “About three miles out of Amnestie.”

  “The walk will do us good,” said Verity.

  “Too hot,” said Rambler.

  “See you at supper.”

  The phone rang. Miss Framer was heard answering it in the hall.

  “Yes? Just a minute. I’ll fetch him.” She put her head round the door and said sourly: “Mr Verity: it’s the Press.”

  “What?”

  “The papers want a statement.”

  “How ridiculous! No one keeps his mouth shut—that’s the trouble!”

  “Well, you didn’t expect to leave it a secret, did you?” asked Miss Framer venomously. “It’s all over the country by now!”

  “There was something in this morning’s Yardstick,” added Rambler.

  “Getting everything wrong, I suppose. Jackson, you didn’t make any statement, did you?”

  “No, sir, I did not. But I think we’d better tell them something.”

  “I’ll not be badgered, Jackson.”

  “No, Mr Verity.”

  “He sounded very insistent,” put in Miss Framer from the door.

  “Oh, did he? Well he’ll get nothing out of me! What rag does the fool represent? The Yardstick?”

  “I couldn’t make out. There was too much noise in the background.”

  Verity stormed into the hall.

  “Well?”

  “Mr Verity?”

  “Well?”

  “This is The Yardstick.”

  “Well?”

  “What about a statement?”

  “Who do you think I am? A clergyman?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you expect me to issue a statement on high matters before I understand them myself?”

  “That’ll be fine…”

  “I tell you, you newspaper men are the real dope-peddlers! It should be you we find locked up in cupboards and bleeding to death on carpets! Do you hear me?”

  “And then what happened?…”

  Mr Verity roared into the receiver.

  “O.K.,” said the man at the other end. “We’ll send someone down.”

  The old man came back panting.

  “Curiosity! Curiosity!… That’s the trouble with people!… Even when I went down to the post office this morning there were big white faces watching me behind the curtains all along the street!”

  “Well, you’re going out now,” said Rambler imperturbably. “Faces or no faces, we must see Winnidge this afternoon.”

  Mr Verity snorted, and plunged through the French window. Rambler followed him, more ponderously. The Inspector was left at the table, still unwilling to abandon Miss Framer as the chief suspect, and puzzling over the possible ways she could have murdered her victim without assistance.

  It was a blazing afternoon. Mr Verity panted heavily as he flopped, rather than walked, down the steep hill towards Carrington; and Detective-Inspector Rambler groaned and slithered behind him. In this style they travelled in silence till the road levelled out. Then Rambler drew up with his friend and gazed at him admonishingly with his mournful eyes.

  “You know,” he said at last, “I don’t understand a single word you say when you embark on one of your luncheon speeches. And yet you always get there in the end. I’ll never understand that.”

  “It would be better if one could keep one’s eyes shut in this case,” said Verity sincerely. “It’s like rinsing one’s hands through slime. Take this interview with Winnidge—I know so much about him already! When I break him down, he’ll tell me more, and all of it pathetic.”

  “How do you know so much about him?”

  “I talked to his young lady this morning while you were bathing.” For the second time that hour Verity recounted his interview with Alice. “That’s why I want you to walk with me as far as the young man’s house, and then let me go in alone.”

  “All right. As you please. If Jackson didn’t mind our going without him, there’s no reason why I should mind your going without me.”

  “None whatever, Porpoise. Of course Jackson thinks we’re both going in, but somehow I feel the fewer the better. He’ll prove much more difficult if we both go.”

  They were now on the coastal road, watching the water rolling beyond the white beach as if the sea itself were at anchor.

  Rambler took the initiative.

  “I confess,” he said, “that I made a mistake. But I still think that the theory is right. After all, it’s the only logical one.”

  “True,” said Verity.

  “Well, there are still two alternatives. Miss Burton could have done it by herself, or with an accomplice—only this time substitute Winnidge for Cunningham. Let us explain the vicar’s story for the moment.”

  “And Mr Swabber’s story.”

  “Who? Oh—yes, the man next door. Very well, let us say that all Winnidge administered to Maxwell was a knock-out blow with his fist. Remember there’s been no talk of a gun, either by the vicar or Mr Swabber. A good smack with a fist would account for the collapsed figure in the car-seat; the blood found by ourselves at the foot of the stairs; and the moaning heard by Mr Swabber in the early hours of the morning.”

  “True again,” said Verity. “And also the bruise Dr Pelham found on Maxwell’s face.”

  “Very well, then, let us leave Maxwell, bruised but not shot, in his room from about six-thirty to seven-thirty. At this point he sends for his favourite waitress. Reluctantly she arrives—and, as she confessed to you, filled with more hatred than she had ever felt for anyone.”

  “That was the night before,” said Verity.

  “I don’t imagine it had cooled much in the night,” Rambler retorted.

  “Well… I grant you that.”

  “And she takes with her the gun which she has stolen from Cunningham’s room. After all, Cunningham may have been telling you the truth when he said he hadn’t seen the gun on the morning of the murder.”

  “Even assuming he was telling the truth, there are still Paxton’s prints on it to account for.”

  “That is not difficult to explain. He probably picked up the gun when he found Maxwell’s body.”

  “Go on.”

  “Maxwell, say, tries to embrace Miss Burton. They quarrel violently, and in the quarrel Alice shoots him. It is not a fatal wound, and he lurches round the room, spilling the blood we found, till she summons up the courage to fire again. He drops dead instantaneously. At this moment she sees a man outside on the balcony. It is Paxton. Quickly she hides—in the wardrobe—as Paxton climbs in. He sees Maxwell’s body, picks up Cunningham’s gun which she has inadvertently left on the floor, and bolts. Now she steals out again and makes to follow him quickly out of the room—when another noise is heard at the very door she is about to open.”

  “Good,” said Verity. “Cunningham.”

  “Yes. Back she goes to her wardrobe. Cunningham comes in to ‘reason’ with Maxwell, as he said, sees the body and—terrified of being seen coming out of the murdered man’s door—flees through the window.”

  “You are suggesting we believe Cunningham’s story in its entirety.”

  “There’s nothing against it.”

  “True.”

  “Well, then she panics. She rushes to the door and locks it. She darts over to the window—there below is Cunningham in the arms of a policeman. An idea occurs to her. Why not blame the whole thing on to him?… Th
e story of the masked man is still the invention of a moment: no one will ever convince me otherwise.”

  “Well?”

  “So she ties her legs up inside the cupboard, shutting the door upon herself. But her mistakes were obvious: if she realised them she did so too late. For one thing she had left the gun on the floor.”

  “Perhaps she meant to leave it there,” said Verity, “as part of her plan to incriminate Cunningham. Perhaps she forgot that her own prints were also on it.”

  “That’s very likely. Or perhaps she just forgot to get rid of it.” He stopped, badly out of breath. “Let’s sit here a minute and rest.”

  The two fat men halted at a cliff-top and lowered themselves precariously into the long grass. Below them children, in bright-coloured trunks, were running about on the sand.

  “But her biggest mistake was in locking the door and the window,” Rambler resumed presently. “She did that, of course, before she thought up her story of the man in the mask. Unfortunately for her, that action in itself is sufficient proof that she wasn’t tied up by any murderer.”

  Verity cut off the heads of several dandelions and dropped them over the side of the cliff. They were received with shrieks of delight below.

  “There’s just one thing, Porpoise,” he said, waving to the children. “I grant you that Winnidge knocked out Maxwell: it seems a very likely explanation. I grant you that the story of the mask is pretty fantastic. But one thing rather confirms it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I mean the key of the wardrobe on the inside of the door.”

  “What about it?”

  “Certainly any man locking a woman in for a certain space of time would put the key in with her, where she could find it easily. He would only want time to make his get-away. He had no interest in keeping her imprisoned for long. What more natural than he should put the key in with her? Or that a woman inventing such a story would forget a minute detail like that?”

  “A good point, but not sufficient to shake the story. She is a clever woman—”

  “Resourceful, anyway—”

  “And she obviously remembered to put the key beside her as a convincing detail.”

  “A woman clever enough to remember a tiny detail like that—clever enough to believe we would think her too stupid to be capable of such a thing—would not make the obvious mistakes she did. She would not lock the door. She would not lock the window. And she would either have hidden the gun after using it, or put on gloves in the first place.”

  Verity stood up, and offered a hand to his friend.

  “You are wrong, Porpoise,” he said. “You are wrong.”

  Let us then try the second of my alternatives, said Rambler, not a whit shaken.

  “That she was an accomplice of Winnidge?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can think of nothing more likely,” said Verity. “However, unless I’m mistaken, that’s Winnidge’s house over there, Number 2, East Bay.”

  He pointed to a neat house whose blue gables faced the sea above windows which glittered in the sunlight.

  “I like that house,” said Verity. “Markedly inconspicuous.”

  Adjoining it was a garage in which they could see the back of a capacious car. There was no one about.

  “Let’s go and see what’s wrong with it,” said Rambler.

  “No, I will,” said Verity. “You sit over there.”

  Rambler looked at him sulkily for a moment, and then sighed.

  “Very well. I’ll be under that tree when you’re finished. It’s far too hot to sit in the open.” He made off into the shade of a large conifer and Verity crossed the road to the house Then, as noiselessly as he could, he approached the garage.

  It was a large car, capable of taking seven in comfort. The left-hand door, opposite the driving-seat, was open; a bucket of soapy water stood on the floor. Mr Verity entered the garage on tip-toe and peered gingerly in at the open door. The seat, sure enough, was damp where it had been recently washed: darker spots showed through on the wide patch of wet seating. Mr Verity nodded in satisfaction.

  “Yes?” said a harsh voice.

  He turned. At the entrance of the garage a man of about thirty stood regarding him: his white shirt dazzled in the sunlight. Beyond his shoulder Mr Verity could see Rambler, apparently asleep under the tree, on the other side of the road.

  “Mr Edward Winnidge?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Verity.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh!”

  “I’ve seen you poking your nose into things before now. What were you after this time?”

  “Blood,” said Verity. “Is there anywhere we can talk?”

  “This is good enough for me.”

  “As you please.”

  “That’s always supposing I want to talk.”

  “I think it’d be best if you did. You’re not in a very enviable position.”

  The man came closer. He had a clumsy jaw and large ears, but was not bad-looking in an averagely sensual way.

  “Meaning what?” he said.

  Mr Verity hitched up his flannels and sat down very deliberately on the running-board.

  “There are certain things I ought to explain,” he said. “Your fiancée is in serious trouble.”

  “Alice?”

  “There’s absolutely no use squaring your jaw at me, Mr Winnidge. I know too much for that sort of treatment to be really effective. You say you know me. Very well, you know that I am concerned in the investigation of Mr Maxwell’s murder.”

  “Mr Maxwell!” Winnidge spat fiercely. “And you want me to help?”

  “I’m afraid I do. Don’t imagine I like doing this:—what I have gleaned about Maxwell in only a few hours has convinced me that his death was an unalleviated benefit for a great many people.”

  “Why investigate it, then?”

  “Interest, Mr Winnidge. Interest wedded to duty. The case intrigues me as no case has ever done before. There are so many possible answers:—and most of them hinge on Alice. That’s why you must answer my questions. I am not asking you to help hang Maxwell’s murderer—but to help Alice clear herself with the police.”

  “How can I help? Did she send you here?”

  “I think she knows I’d be here some time. You see, she told me a great deal.”

  Winnidge bent down and started polishing the car with a rag.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “A few answers. You were in the habit of taking Maxwell for late night drives?”

  “Yes, I took him—but I didn’t know it was him. If only I had!… If only!…”

  “Perhaps it was just as well you didn’t,” observed Verity, watching the dirty water stream out of the rag he was squeezing between his large hands. “On the night before he was murdered, did you take him out?”

  There was a faint hesitation before he replied:

  “Yes. He phoned for me about four in the morning.”

  “Didn’t you object to being called out so late?”

  “It wasn’t usually as late as that—and it always meant a few quid. And that night, you see, I knew.”

  “You mean Alice had told you that Maxwell was down here, and pestering her?”

  “Yes. She’d told me earlier on. And so I went. I picked him up about four-thirty.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “No one I can think of. I was pretty quiet, of course. And I fancy most of them were asleep.”

  “Naturally. Go on.”

  “I drove him around for an hour or so. I think he enjoyed sitting in the back, making me drive him about. He didn’t say a word to me. But I felt him watching me all the time. I kept on driving—trying to keep myself under control, I suppose. He didn’t guess anything. In the end I stopped the car. Then I told him I knew.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Amnestie Square—at the end of the High Street.”

  “Are you sure it was there?”

/>   “Of course I’m sure. I made him get out. He was scared stiff, and never took his eyes off me. I told him to pack his bags and get out on the first train. He just stood and looked at me—and then he laughed. I remember he laughed… like a woman!”

  “And then?”

  “I took a swipe at him. He fell and hit his face on the side of the mudguard. He split his cheek open and the blood ran all down his face. There was some coming from his mouth as well.”

  “What did you do?”

  “He was out cold. I picked him up and slung him back into the car beside me, and took him back to the hotel. I had to carry him upstairs to his room.”

  “Did anyone see you?” asked Verity, watching the man’s face carefully. It was possible that the vicar had made himself as conspicuous to Winnidge as Winnidge had to the vicar.

  “No one,” said Winnidge decisively. “Oh, wait! There was someone in the hall. I remember I stood and chatted to him for a minute at the foot of the stairs.”

  “Oh? Who was this?”

  “Some odd chap up at the hotel. I’ve taken him to the station a couple of times.”

  “Didn’t he think it rather peculiar that you should be standing talking to him with a body slung over your shoulder?”

  “Well, it’s as I say—he’s odd himself, so he wouldn’t take much notice of it. I think he even expected it—talked a lot about plots and conspiracies and suchlike.”

  “Really? Do you happen to know his name?”

  “Tudor. Richard Rudor, I think. He’s quite a character round here. He thinks he’s the King, so they tell me. But harmless.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him the truth,” said Winnidge levelly. “I told him we’d had a fight. Maxwell came round then and started hollering—so I had to get him upstairs.”

  “And then?”

  “I left him on the bed, and went out of his room.”

  “You saw Alice?”

  “No, I didn’t. I just walked around for a bit, then went home. The first I heard of him being dead was in ‘The Bellows’ at lunch-time. And that’s the truth, so help me.”

  “Yes, I think it is.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I said I think it is the truth—so far as it goes. But I preferred to have it from you.”

  “Here… I don’t understand.”

  “There’s no need that you should. When did you last see Alice?”