The Woman in the Wardrobe Page 7

  “Oh, who’s that?”

  “King Richard the Fourth of England.”

  At the hotel Inspector Jackson was already hard at work in the lounge, interviewing the other residents. Verity went quietly off for his bathe, and for the next half-hour Rambler looked on as three bewildered widows, living precariously on fixed incomes, and a fierce Colonel Rainchart, with a balding head and a ramrod spine, revealed that they knew nothing of what was going on, and were not greatly interested. The Colonel, it is true, did think he had heard a shot two nights before—but it had turned out to be “only the dog—dashed nuisance!”

  None of the servants knew anything either. Mr Maxwell had had all his meals in his room, and Miss Burton was the only one allowed to wait on him.

  Something of interest was, however, elicited from a Mr Swabber, a retired builder, now taking an extended holiday by the sea. Mr Swabber occupied the room next to Mr Maxwell, on the farthest side from the main staircase, and, now they came to mention it, he had heard a noise yesterday morning in his neighbour’s room.

  “What time was this?” asked Jackson.

  “Oh, it must have been about six in the morning,” said Swabber, sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket and preparing to enjoy a brief moment of importance. “Yes, about six—or six-thirty. No later. No, sir, no later than six-thirty.”

  “What was this noise you heard?”

  “Well, first it was the door of his room opening. I didn’t much mind that, really, because it happened all the time, you might say.”

  “All the time?”

  “Yes. Maxwell was always coming in in the early mornings. He’d often stay out half the night. It was when he took his exercise, so Miss Framer said.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, but yesterday morning was different.”

  “Oh? How—different?”

  “Well, there was another person in with him. I could swear to it! The walls are pretty thin, you know, and me lying awake next door, I heard ’em walking about.”

  “How many of them were there?”

  “Oh, just two. Him and another man, I should say.”

  “A man?”

  “Yes, I heard one of ’em talking. He kept his voice down, but I’m sure it was a man… And then there was noises.”

  “What noises?”

  Mr Swabber leant forward and winked heavily.

  “The noises was the trouble… Moans and groans—and then the other man talking low. And then a noise like someone staggering about a bit, as if they was a bit pickled. Then all of a sudden—a bang, like someone falling down. And then the moaning stopped.”

  “And then?”

  “The door opened and one of them went out.”

  “Is that all?”

  “A long time later, I heard a car drive off. Mind you, it wasn’t outside the hotel. No, sir; farther off it was!”

  “It had been parked farther down the street, you mean?”

  “That’s right. Farther down…”

  “How long after was this?”

  “Oh, a good long time… Must have been fifteen minutes.”

  “I see. Anything else?”

  “No, not that I can bring to mind. I fell asleep shortly after.”

  “Excellent,” said Rambler, when Swabber had gone. “That opens up several new avenues.”

  Jackson nodded, satisfied with himself.

  “Oh dear,” said Verity, from the garden, “haven’t we enough already?”

  “Hullo? How’s the water?”

  “Much too warm!”

  He came through the French window wringing the water from his beard. He had changed back into his baggy flannels, and through the window they could see where his immense mauve costume hung sodden from a straining branch of the apple-tree.

  They told him Mr Swabber’s story.

  “New avenues indeed!” said Verity excitedly. “There is much that may be deduced from this tale of groaning in a neighbouring room. Remember, the doctor said that there were two gun-wounds: but only one of them was fatal. Up to now we have been assuming that the two bullets were fired from the same gun. But what if one of them were fired earlier, and by another gun—say about six-thirty by the man with the car?”

  “That would account for all the blood in the room,” said Jackson.

  “And at the foot of the stairs,” said Verity. “He was probably carried up.”

  “It certainly fits,” agreed Rambler. “It looks as if we have another suspect on our hands.”

  “Might I suggest Winnidge?”

  “You might indeed.”

  “Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you,” said Verity, lighting the first cigar of the day. “I asked Sergeant Matthews to search Miss Burton’s room before letting her go back to it.”

  “You asked Matthews?” Jackson was clearly shocked.

  “Yes. I told him I’d take the blame myself, so don’t say anything to him. It was worth it. He found a note in one of the drawers: a note from Maxwell.”

  “No!” Rambler was all attention. “What does it say?”

  “Oh, nothing very much. It just warns her ‘for her own good’ not to make any objections to waiting on him. He also says that if she tried running away again—note the ‘again’—it would be the worse for her. He wouldn’t hesitate to make use of what he knew.”

  “So that’s why he came down!” said Rambler. “Obviously she was hiding out here, and Maxwell got to know of it!”

  “Well, anyway, she didn’t take his advice,” Jackson put in. “That threatening letter we found from Winnidge seems to prove that she told him at any rate.”

  “Things are beginning to centre more and more on Winnidge,” said Rambler, pulling thoughtfully at his jowl. “We must see him at the earliest possible moment.”

  “Always assuming that’s his right name,” said Verity. “In the meantime, let’s have your two accomplices in. They should make interesting listening.”

  “Good. We’ll see Cunningham first. Then, I suppose, the oft-tried confronting scene.”

  Jackson nodded and sent Constable Locksley for Cunningham. When, in a moment, he appeared and sat down on the wicker-settee opposite Jackson and Rambler, he was obviously more composed than on the preceding day. It seemed to Verity, sitting in the corner, that his eyes were more controlled and that his moustache had been brushed, along with the rather sparse, sandy hair on his head.

  “This is Detective Inspector Rambler,” said Jackson. “Mr Cunningham.”

  Rambler smiled. His leading suspect looked at him with dislike.

  “Now, all he wants is the answers to a few questions—”

  “Well, he won’t get them!” said Cunningham. “You heard all I have to say yesterday. You can tell him that! I’ll be blowed if I repeat it all for his benefit!”

  Mr Verity watched the fury in the man’s grey eyes: an easy man to bluff, if need be.

  Rambler leant forward over the table, hunching his massive shoulders as he did so, and the voice that issued from his tiny mouth became smoother than ever.

  “Mr Cunningham,” he breathed, closing soft hands together, “we are investigating a murder. You are one of a number of people suspected of doing that murder. I really think you had better tell me what I want to know.”

  “I can see why you’ve been brought in,” said Cunningham, looking at him sharply. “They’re finding it too much for them!”

  Rambler ignored this. “I want you to amplify one of your statements, if you don’t mind.” (In procedure of this sort both he and Verity were as one: ‘two soft-tonged Magi’ as someone in Chelsea had once said of them, ‘whom Circe had turned into bison.’) “You told Mr Verity yesterday that you were once working for a firm of brokers. Is this true?”

  “Why shouldn’t it be?” asked Cunningham sullenly.

  Where was this firm?

  “Somewhere in the City.”

  “You are very co-operative,” said Rambler dangerously. “Why did they fire you, Mr Cunningham?”


  “I see no need to answer that… Why I was fired concerns me alone.”

  “For the moment, yes. It may, however, concern a jury later on.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, come, Mr Cunningham, do be reasonable! You were fired from your firm because you were taking dope in such large quantities that you were becoming unreliable. So much is anyone’s easy guess. Why you took the stuff in the first place is, I concede, your business alone—at any rate for the present. But where you got it from is an entirely different matter.”

  “Got it from?”

  “Yes, Cunningham, where? The knowledge that you took dope—as Mr Verity has already observed to you—would really be pretty poor security to a blackmailer. Anyone can see it for himself. Further, I doubt very much if you have the self-respect left to mind if anyone can see it or not: and you certainly wouldn’t pay a blackmailer to prevent him revealing such a thing.”

  “My observations to Mr Cunningham,” said Verity from behind the pages of his ‘Sphere’, “were made with the sole purpose of telling him, as politely as possible, that I knew he was lying.”

  “And what,” asked Rambler of his friend, “was the point of being polite?”

  “Because I did not see the necessity of proving his real motive. Everyone who knew Maxwell had a motive for killing him. It was sufficient to know that Mr Cunningham was involved: I guessed the rest.”

  “And what did you guess?”

  There was a pause. Jackson stopped taking notes. Cunningham looked agonised.

  “Even if a dope-addict does not mind people knowing he takes it,” said Verity carefully, “he certainly does mind people knowing how he gets it.”

  “As Mr Cunningham has just demonstrated,” said Rambler.

  “Quite so. It occurred to me that Mr Maxwell himself was supplying the stuff, but I rejected the idea. Trafficking would have been far too energetic an occupation for him.”

  “And far too wholesome,” said Rambler.

  “I also recollected that among his papers we found a fairly standard demand-note addressed to Mr Cunningham. Now a man who supplies a hopeless addict does not have to solicit him for business by using threats of exposure.”

  “In other words,” Rambler inquired, “Maxwell was not asking the price for his continued supply, but for his continued secrecy?”

  “Yes, in other words.”

  “And can you imagine what it is he had to be secret about?”

  “I should say it was the knowledge you yourself were seeking but a moment back. That is: who was supplying Mr Cunningham with his dope? To know that, and to be able to prove it, would be enough to put Mr Cunningham in one’s power.”

  “Rest assured,” said Mr Rambler to Mr Verity. “We have Mr Cunningham in our power without any such knowledge.”

  He turned to his victim—who was beginning to tremble uncontrollably—and resumed the examination. Jackson sat aghast at his table, and endeavoured to take notes.

  “So: the person who was supplying you was also ‘known’ to Maxwell. As for his identity—well, it could be anyone! Mr Verity’s guess is as good as mine. The name might appear in his papers, of course, but that’s a long shot. Tell me, Mr Cunningham: how long have you known Miss Burton?”

  “Miss Burton?… I don’t understand. I don’t know any Miss Burton!”

  “You know,” said Rambler quietly, “contrary to general belief, detectives find this kind of stalling very tedious. Now supposing, for a change, we had the whole story in one piece.”

  “Story?” shouted Cunningham. “I tell you I don’t know any Miss Burton!… To hell with your questions… You think you’re clever—doing that double act with your bearded friend in the corner!… Well, so you are—damn clever! Go ahead, both of you! You don’t need any help from me! You’re fine by yourselves!”

  “Bring in Miss Burton, please,” Rambler said to Locksley.

  They all sat in silence—broken only by Cunningham’s muttered “Go ahead… You’re fine!”—until she appeared. Rambler was evidently keyed up to ‘manage’ a scene; Verity put down the ‘Sphere’.

  On entering she cast one look at Cunningham, but showed no detectable trace of emotion. Indeed, in her waitress’ uniform, she looked the very image of self-possession: she stood a little to Jackson’s left, her head thrown back almost defiantly, and her braided hair catching the sunlight from the garden. Some colour had now returned to her cheeks, and her lively blue eyes were sparkling.

  The two old men looked at her admiringly.

  (“If he’s going to accuse her of peddling dope,” said Verity to himself, “he’ll be making a very big mistake. Unlike him, I trust my memories. And I remember the Matron of Syracuse as well as I do the Sicilian gardener. She may be a murderess, but she didn’t peddle dope. You can’t be righteous about peddling dope.”)

  “Good-morning,” said Rambler, affectionately. “How are you this morning?”

  “Much better, thank you.” She smiled.

  “That’s fine. Now I want you to run over your statement about what happened yesterday morning, if you would be so good.”

  “Now?”

  He nodded winningly.

  (“I shan’t interfere, though,” Verity continued his soliloquy. “Even if he accuses her of supplying Cunningham with his beastly stuff, I shan’t interfere. It sometimes helps to have one’s suspects thinking one is barking up the wrong tree… Absurd expression—‘barking up the wrong tree’! What on earth can be the use of barking up a right tree?…”)

  While Mr Verity was turning over these thoughts, the girl was going over her story of the day before. Rambler treated her gently enough, but his eyes never left her face. She told him all there was to tell: of the summons by Maxwell, the entry of the masked man, the quarrel, the shooting, the faint, the awakening in the wardrobe—everything was included, and without so much as a blush. Even Rambler had to admit she made a good liar:—a wonderful liar, considering that her accomplice was sitting behind her on the settee. When she had finished, he thanked her politely.

  “Your account is very clear, Miss Burton. An unfortunate business. Did you happen to notice what kind of gun the man was holding when he threatened Mr Maxwell?”

  “No. I’m afraid I didn’t.”

  “A pity. Did you know Mr Maxwell?”

  “Well, not very well, sir… I used to serve him his meals, of course.”

  (“She may be lying,” said Verity to himself. “But is it possible—is it just possible—that Winnidge’s letter refers to another Alice?… I wonder…”)

  “Why ‘of course’?” asked Rambler. “I gather no one else was allowed in the room.”

  “I—I’m afraid I can’t explain that, sir…”

  “You have no idea?”

  “None at all, sir.”

  “Well, I have!” shouted Cunningham, getting up furiously and turning to Verity. “I told you I saw her go into his room two nights ago. I told you I saw that!”

  “So you did,” said Verity equably.

  “I heard them quarrelling, I tell you. They were at it hammer and tongs, almost as soon as she entered the room!”

  “Ohh!…” Alice screamed aloud. “Ohh!… My God!…” She backed hastily round behind the lounge-table. “I’d know that voice anywhere!”

  “What voice?”

  “Don’t let him near me! He knows I’m speaking the truth!”

  “Truth!” shouted Cunningham. “It’s me who’s telling the truth! I heard her with Maxwell! I saw her go in!”

  “Don’t listen to him! He’s lying—anyone can see he’s lying!”

  “I’m lying! That’s fine! That’s magnificent, coming—”

  “Silence!” roared Rambler, banging the table. It fell at once. “Now, whose voice do you recognise, Miss Burton? This is Mr Cunningham, a guest at the hotel.”

  “Yes,” said Alice shakily. “I’ve seen him before. But I’ve never served him. And I never heard his voice till yesterday mor
ning.”

  “In the bedroom?”

  “Yes. As I stand here—that’s the man in the mask!”

  There was another silence for a moment, and then Cunningham started to laugh.

  “My dear Inspector!” he said, his moustache quivering as he gulped down his merriment in little bursts, “my dear Inspector… First you ask me whether I associate with waitresses and then… then you actually bring one in to tell me… that I… put on a mask and tied her up in a cupboard!… Brilliant, Inspector! My congratulations, Inspector! Brilliant!… Priceless!…”

  Verity noted that the laughter was shrill and hysterical. But Rambler was incapable of any such attention: he was just staring in silence at Miss Burton, who was repeating over and over again: “That’s him! That’s the man I heard!”

  The noise went on for several minutes. Then, at last, Jackson snapped to Locksley “Get them out of here—both of them!” and the babble subsided. Mr Verity watched them being taken away with a look of very genuine surprise.

  “And where are your accomplices now?” asked a voice from the garden.

  Chapter VII

  It was Richard Tudor, dressed in a long green bath-robe, returning from the sea. Mr Verity performed the introduction, but Rambler was too stunned to pay much attention.

  “You must pardon me,” said Tudor. “I couldn’t help overhearing you earlier on as I passed through the garden. You were talking about confronting your suspects, as I remember. Of course it’s none of my business, but it does seem to me to be rather a question of class.”

  “You mean that a City man doesn’t conspire with a waitress?”

  “No, the other way about. A gentlewoman may, for reasons best known to herself, prefer to live incognito, but she does not for that reason ally herself with persons of Mr Cunningham’s stamp.”

  “That is very perceptive of you,” said Verity. “However, Miss Burton is not a gentlewoman, as you suggest: merely fair to middling, I fancy.”

  Rambler recovered from his stupor.

  “I am pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “You have my sympathy,” said Tudor. “You were obviously working on the right lines.”

  “I was?”

  “But certainly. You can never afford to neglect the terrible fact that England today is full of conspirators. Full,” he repeated.