The Woman in the Wardrobe Read online

  “All the villagers worshipped her; she was their guide in all misfortune. At every crisis in a man’s affairs he went to this figure, fitted his mouth to her mouth, and sucked up the wisdom from her brain. Of course, as time went on, the mouth grew less and less, and finally became almost as you see it now—worn away by all those many passionate kisses of curiosity. In the end it was decreed that, to save her mouth from further damage by the lips of the people, only the priests might consult her.

  “The people were very reluctant to obey, and the elders of the village found it difficult to convince them that this was the wisest course. In the end, however, they agreed. But, so the legend goes, the Sea Goddess grew angry at this order—and from then on she made all her wisdom inaccessible to the wise because they had denied her the embraces of the foolish.”

  Friday morning saw the hot weather persisting. The grass dew sparkled in the early sun and there was a bloom on the sky.

  Mr Rambler and Mr Verity came pounding down the path from ‘Persepolis’ with the heavy eagerness of mastiffs scenting a poacher. At the outskirts of the town a man approached them, and stood hesitantly in their way. It was Edward Winnidge.

  “Can I speak to you for a moment?” he asked.

  “Of course!” Verity noticed a haunted, sleepless look in his eyes. “What is it?”

  “It’s about yesterday. I’ve been waiting half an hour to tell you this.”

  “What about yesterday?”

  “Well, I know I behaved badly yesterday, and—well, a chap gets flustered with the police round, and one thing and another… My nerves are all on edge, you see, and well…”

  “Is this an apology or something more interesting?”

  “You see, Alice rang me up last night and told me how kind you’d been, sir—and how you were only trying to help.”

  He lowered his eyes and stared fixedly at the ground. Mr Verity wondered whether his discomforture rose from the difficulty of expressing gratitude, or that of concealing guilt.

  “That’s gracious of her,” he said aloud.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Young man,” said Rambler severely, “it is my duty to tell you that Miss Burton is in very serious trouble.”

  “But surely you believe her?”

  “I do not. And I’m not sure I believe you.”

  The man’s face paled with returning anger.

  “What I told Mr Verity was the truth. The whole truth!… He said he believed me.”

  “I am inclined to think most of it was the truth,” agreed Rambler.

  “He said he had a witness to bear me out!”

  “The vicar? Yes, he does bear out part of your story. That’s the part I believe.”

  “But—you don’t think I killed him?”

  “The thought had occurred to us,” admitted Verity. “How is your friend Tudor this morning?”

  “Tudor?… I don’t understand.” Winnidge’s voice faltered.

  “Well, he can bear you out, too, can’t he?”

  “Yes! Of course he can!… He can bear me out!”

  “That vestibule must have been pretty dark, at six-thirty.” Rambler put in, stroking his jaw. “In circumstances like that it is not always easy to tell where a man is wounded: before or behind—on the jaw or in the back.”

  “But I tell you he saw! Don’t you understand, Maxwell moved!”

  “You are the only one to say so,” said Rambler.

  “But Tudor can—”

  “We have had enough of this,” Verity retorted impatiently. “You know as well as anybody that Tudor can tell us nothing.”

  “What?”

  “You must have heard! It’s been all over the town. It must even have reached ‘The Bellows’.”

  “No? Is he dead?”

  “It’s more than likely.”

  Winnidge went as pale as on the preceding afternoon, when Verity had suggested the possibility of his playing the role of accomplice to Alice.

  “I swear I’ve heard nothing…”

  “It is,” said Verity, “an affair of major importance at the moment—at any rate as far as you are concerned.”

  “And even should he round the corner this moment,” added Rambler, “you are not out of danger. Very far from it. You see, we are also particularly interested in what you did with Mr Maxwell after you took him upstairs. To us the scene heard by Mr Maxwell’s neighbour a little after six-thirty in the morning is as important as what passed on the stairs between you and Mr Tudor.”

  “I—I—.”

  “Good morning to you, Mr Winnidge,” said Verity firmly.

  The two men resumed their march to the hotel, leaving the man standing dumbfounded in the sunlight. The news of a neighbour to Maxwell (the attentive Mr Swabber) was evidently quite a shock to Ted Winnidge.

  “All the same, I’m glad he apologised for his brusquerie,” said Verity after a pause. “I like the man.”

  “So do I,” confessed Rambler. “It’s a shame—a very great shame.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s a shame?”

  “Well, things look pretty black for the both of them, you must admit.”

  “On the contrary. Forgive me for playing mysterious, but as I said last night, I see things rather more in their favour now.”

  “Even with the disappearance of Tudor?”

  “I once told Jackson we’d find that Tudor had very little to do with the case. I still believe that.”

  “I should say he’s just the sort of man to get into trouble.”

  “No, he’s far too used to not being taken seriously to get into very much trouble. He lives in a world of his own that springs a hundred little private sensations on him every day. Why should he bother with a comparatively petty outrage like the shooting of a blackmailer?”

  Rambler said nothing.

  “Besides, I was watching Winnidge a minute ago. He was really furious that we didn’t believe him.”

  “Of course he was.”

  “Yes, but unless he were insane, a guilty man would rather expect our disbelief.”

  “A minute ago,” said Rambler stolidly, “you were implying that Mr Tudor’s insanity always led him to expect disbelief.”

  “Good God!” Verity exploded. “This is no time for conundrums, Porpoise.”

  “I am merely trying to understand what you are saying.”

  “Listen. Winnidge was angry—very angry. But it was a bewildered anger. He was wild with us for not believing him. He couldn’t understand why we didn’t accept his story in all its details.”

  “And how,” asked Rambler seriously, “would you undertake to mark the difference between a man thwarted in telling the truth and one thwarted in telling a lie?”

  “He bears the look of an honest man,” said Verity. “It is a quality which simply cannot be simulated in my presence.”

  “I suppose,” said Rambler, permitting himself a sarcasm with formal gravity, “that you once found the same look on the face of a stone bust in Greece.”

  “No,” Verity replied, “it was actually in Italy. And the material was Carrara marble.”

  They entered ‘The Charter’ together. Jackson was at his table, with Sergeant Matthews.

  “Good morning,” said Verity. “I want to see Cunningham right away. It’s most important.”

  Matthews was sent for Cunningham.

  “What’s this for?” asked Rambler.

  “Wait. I am about to produce one of the last and largest rabbits from a very bad hat.”

  Rambler grunted. “Any news of Tudor?”

  “None,” said Jackson. “I’ve sent out a description, of course. All we can do is wait, sir.”

  “Mm.”

  “Do you think he’s done a bolt, sir? If he has, he took a long time to do it.”

  “Mm.”

  “Perhaps he only realised the significance of what he saw much later.”

  “More likely he’s just afraid of the police, like the vicar,” said Verity. “And all
because he didn’t come forward with the story of how he met Winnidge in the small hours.”

  “Withholding evidence seems quite a pastime in this part of the world,” said Rambler fiercely.

  The door opened and Matthews brought Cunningham into the room.

  “Good morning,” said Verity affably. “Take a seat.”

  Mr Cunningham nodded quickly to the three detectives and took his usual place on the wicker settee. Rambler accepted of Verity his first cigar of the day and retired to Jackson’s side of the table; Matthews watched impassively from further off. Verity was left holding the floor.

  “I’ve asked you to come back here,” he said, after a pause, “because there are one or two questions I want to put to you.”

  “Well?”

  “Mr Cunningham: who do you think killed Mr Maxwell?”

  Cunningham looked up, startled. Verity saw that his hair and moustache were even more unkempt than at the first interview; his eyes too had again lost their power to focus properly.

  “What was that you said?”

  “I asked you who killed Maxwell.”

  “What’s this?… Still part of the act with your friend?” He turned his wandering eyes on Rambler. “How the hell should I know?”

  “Now stop that whining,” said Verity crisply. “It won’t help you. Now let’s have a few guesses, shall we?”

  “Guesses?”

  “At the murderer. What do you say to Paxton?”

  “I say I mind my own business.”

  “An excellent, if rather a novel, policy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Two days ago in this room you accused Paxton fairly definitely of murdering Maxwell—probably in collaboration with Miss Framer.”

  “I was upset then… I didn’t know what I was saying.”

  “You mean you didn’t know you were saying it out loud. That’s quite a guarantee that you really meant it.”

  “I was on edge—nervous… I wasn’t responsible,” said Cunningham, beginning to get excited.

  “Then if you don’t think Paxton did it in collaboration with Miss Framer, how about Miss Framer by herself?”

  “Miss Framer?”

  Jackson, whose suspect she had been all the time, sat up and began sharpening a pencil.

  “It’s unlikely that she did it, isn’t it?” asked Verity. “I mean considering that her prints weren’t on the gun we found. It’s as unlikely as that Paxton did it and then called the police.”

  “Here, what are you getting at?… I know you, Verity—this is all a clever way of saying I did it, isn’t it?”

  “Is it? I was just coming to Miss Burton.”

  “That waitress?… Now there you have something!” His eyes came to rest on Verity’s face with a gleam of excitement. “You saw how she tried to blame it on to me with that story of hers about me dressing up in a mask… And I tell you, I heard her quarrelling with Maxwell only the night before.”

  “It may interest you to know that I found a mask of black silk yesterday evening—in a drawer in Miss Burton’s bedroom.”

  There was a pause. Then for the first time Cunningham smiled.

  “There you are, you see!… It’s as plain as a pikestaff!”

  “Not to me,” said Verity.

  “Well, she was going to use it to incriminate me! Don’t you understand? I shouldn’t be surprised if it was she who dropped that key under my chair in the dining-room.”

  “That’s an interesting hypothesis.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? I mean she could have, just as easily as—”

  “Mr Cunningham,” said Verity coldly, “why did you put that mask in Miss Burton’s room?”

  “What!… Me?…”

  “You.”

  “Now look!… Don’t be bloody ridiculous!”

  He struggled angrily to his feet. Verity sat quite still.

  “On Wednesday night,” he said slowly, “and on my instructions, Sergeant Matthews searched Miss Burton’s room before she was allowed to go back to it.”

  “My God! I’d forgotten that,” cried Rambler, jumping up excitedly. “How could I have been so stupid?”

  Verity turned apologetically to Matthews.

  “I’m sorry, Sergeant, but this is important. I’ve told Inspector Jackson already—he knows I took full responsibility.”

  “That’s all right,” said Jackson quickly. “You did very well.”

  “He did excellently,” said Verity, springing up, too, and towering over Cunningham. “Excellently! I thought the end had justified the means when the search produced a letter to her from Maxwell. But this is something quite apart! You realise what it means, don’t you, Cunningham?… It means that the person who put the mask in her drawer was not Alice Burton.”

  “She could have had it on her all the time!”

  “She was searched—as you were.”

  “She could have hidden it somewhere!”

  “As you could! But listen to this, Mr Cunningham,”—Verity peered hard into his victim’s sweaty face—“just listen to this. If Alice Burton had made that mask to incriminate you, would she have left it at the top of her first drawer for anyone to find? Would she? Such details hang people, Mr Cunningham!… No, the only person who could have put it in so obvious a position is someone who wanted it to be found! And could anyone want that more than you?”

  “Me?… Why me?… Why should I want to do a thing like that?”

  “To make us believe what we were only too inclined to believe already: that Miss Burton fabricated the whole story in order to put the blame on to you. Not so very clever an idea, when all is said and done.”

  “It’s a lie!” Cunningham cried hoarsely. “You’re trying to trap me! Paxton could have planted that mask!”

  “Paxton didn’t even know about the mask!” cried Rambler, coming forward and taking a hand in the inquisition.

  “Miss Framer—”

  “Miss Framer neither—”

  “It’s a lie! They both saw the newspapers!”

  “You’re a bad liar,” said Verity coldly, walking away to the window. “Ask yourself what motive would I have for searching Miss Burton’s room after I knew it had already been searched efficiently by Sergeant Matthews. I did so because I knew that mask was there.”

  There was dead silence. Cunningham stared at him in terror.

  “And I knew also that you put it there.”

  “No…”

  “I watched you plant it.”

  “You’re lying!…”

  “It was an amusing idea of yours. You presented Miss Burton with a mask in order to discredit her own story about that mask. The very same mask you wore in Maxwell’s room.”

  “The very same mask…” repeated Cunningham stupidly. “The very same…”

  “The very same mask which I saw you put in Miss Burton’s room.”

  He made as if to protest, then suddenly closed his mouth.

  “The very same mask,” said Verity, “in which you killed Maxwell.”

  Everyone was very still. There was a pause. Then Cunningham nodded quietly.

  “You knew you had to kill him if your supply of dope was to continue. You wanted to kill him, too, for the misery he had caused you and for the degradation to which his persecution had brought you. Didn’t you?”

  “And I would do it over again,” said Cunningham slowly, raising his head and looking at Verity with firm grey eyes. “I would do it now—here, in front of you. I am no criminal. You have had to wear me down to get me to admit it, but now that I can speak of it I am happy! I was proud of myself when I had done it. All Wednesday night I lay awake thinking that now not only me, but hundreds of others—hundreds—were free of him. Hundreds just like me, who had gone wrong once and, because of him, had never been allowed to get back… They would never suffer again—never again receive his letters… any more…”

  He was in tears. For a long moment no one spoke. Then Verity said:

  “Tell me what hap
pened.”

  He had some difficulty collecting himself, but he finally accepted a cigarette, and Sergeant Matthews got ready to take notes.

  “I went to see him,” he said in a hushed, low voice. “It was about seven-thirty-five. I listened at the door, but there was no noise.”

  “You had on your mask?”

  “Yes, in case there was anybody in the passage. I had the gun with me. I opened the door and went in. I was going to make one last effort to plead with him about leaving me alone—”

  “You mean leaving you and your supplier alone. We shall want his name, of course.”

  Cunningham nodded.

  “You don’t know everything. I’d had to steal in order to pay Maxwell and get the stuff as well. I stole quite a bit. And of course he knew about it. He knew everything.”

  “Go on. Where was he when you went into the room?”

  “Sitting in a chair. Miss Burton was—in his arms.”

  “Ordering breakfast,” murmured Verity.

  “He got up when I came in. He was frightened, I can tell you… I was glad to see that—but I hadn’t bargained on the girl. I told her to go into the corner of the room. After all, what else could I do? I couldn’t send her out of the room—not then… And in any case, she didn’t know me. I didn’t think of the wardrobe then.”

  “It was still an absurdly ineffective thing to do, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Of course it was… I didn’t even know what I was doing…”

  “And then?”

  “Then I started talking to him. I told him I’d come to plead with him to let me go. I couldn’t stand it without the stuff—at least, not right away, not just like that! I told him if my friend stopped supplying me, I couldn’t go on living. He said there’d never be any need to tell the police about my friend if I went on paying him. I told him I couldn’t. I just couldn’t: it was physically impossible to pay him!”

  “‘I’ve paid my last shilling to you, Maxwell…’”

  “What was that?”