The Attic Murder by S. Fowler Wright (read me like a book txt) đź“•
Chapter III
FRANCIS HAMMERTON, if we are to think of him by his true name, had not considered the probability that Mrs. Benson might not be the sole occupant of the house, his mind having been concentrated upon aspects of his position which threatened more definite hazards.
Actually, the woman whose voice he heard was a next-door neighbour, Miss Janet Brown, who had looked in with no further purpose than to return a borrowed flat-iron. But it happened that she was already informed of the exciting incident of the afternoon, and when Mrs. Benson detained her for a cup of the tea which could be cheaply obtained by adding fresh water to the leaves in the lodger's teapot, and naturally mentioned the good fortune which had walked in less than two hours before Janet was quick to see the connection bet
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Inspector Combridge must take what comfort he could, which was not much, from that guarded reply. If he had got the wrong man for the second time, he was likely to live in the records of Scotland Yard in a way which he had not anticipated, and certainly did not desire. He looked round for Francis Hammerton, to whom he had wished to speak, having a vague hope that, in his search for those who could support the plea of his own innocence, he might hear something of that in which he was less directly concerned, but Francis had already gone.
He had slipped away the moment that Mr. Garrison left the bench, fleeing to his unknown room from a publicity the extent and consequences of which-he feared, but was unable to judge.
Had he stayed, he would have been able to tell nothing to the Inspector’s comfort or his own advantage, for the weekend had been spent in abortive search for more than one of his old acquaintances who had left the city. He had gained no more than an increasing realization that the ways of the amateur detective are not easy to tread, and had resigned himself to the conclusion that he must succeed in getting in touch with August Garten, or return to the prison walls from which he was so shortly and precariously set free. And even if he should see her again, who could guess what she would be likely to do or say?
If he had any comfort of mind for this night, it was in recalling the voice of a girl who had said, with a confidence very pleasant to hear: “I thought Mr. Hammerton was an innocent and most unfortunate man.” But, unfortunately for him, Miss Weston was not one of the Judges of the Appeal Court.
He spent the evening in watching for a postman who did not come, having a faint hope that Miss Garten might answer by that time, and he left his room an hour before that at which breakfast could be obtained in the morning, seeking for a letter on the hall-table, and was only aware how faint his expectation had really been when he saw an envelope of the familiar mauve, addressed in August’s bold but insubordinate hand — for Miss Garten’s handwriting had the curious quality that while it had its own regularity, it would decline to conform to the size of the paper on which she wrote.
He took the letter back to his own room before opening it, which cost him a needless climb up three flights of stairs, to be descended again in haste, for what he read was this:
Dear Harold,
Why such a filthy trick? If I had not known your writing, I should have refused it, of course.
Not that there is any reason, but no one likes to be caught in a mug’s trap. Call up Ellerton 6603 within a quarter of an hour of when you get this, and we’ll have a few words.
A. G.
He had discretion enough to avoid the telephone in the hall, and went out to seek a street instrument, which he found in three minutes of brisk walking. He rang up the number mentioned, and heard August Garten’s voice answering.
“You needn’t tell me who you are,” she said quickly. “I know that well enough. You know the restaurant in the side-street off Piccadilly, where we met once or twice before? There’s no need to mention it, if you do.
“If you go there about seven tonight, and straight upstairs, and come in at the second door on the right, you may find me there, or you mayn’t. It depends.
“But look here, Harold, you mustn’t mention to anyone that you’ve rung me up, or that I’m going to see you again. I don’t mean who you think. I mean anyone. Just what I say. Promise? Very well. It’ll be your loss if you do.
“That’s enough now. You’re certain you know the place? I’ve no time to chat.”
He had no time to thank her before she had rung off, leaving him to puzzle out what these instructions might mean.
Her letter, though it had no address at its head, certainly implied that she was not in hiding, and had nothing to fear from the police, to whom she had also alluded plainly enough when she had said, “I don’t mean who you think.” And to give a telephone number is to give a means by which you may be as quickly and certainly traced as by the fullest postal address.
She had told him to ring her up within fifteen minutes of getting the letter, and that was also significant of her wish for secrecy. She could not have known within an hour at what time the letter would come to his hands. The narrow margin of time must have been intended to secure as far as possible that he would have no opportunity of talking to others before she could gain his promise of silence. And even on the phone, she had been quick enough to prevent him giving his name, and the appointment had been made in such a way that anyone who had been listening-in would not know within half a square mile where it was that they were arranging to meet… If she were not avoiding the police, on which point he may be excused a doubt, it was evident that she had some most urgent reason for meeting him in a private manner.
Well, he must wait, with what patience he could, and meanwhile he must return to the magistrates’ court, and watch the development of a drama in which it had seemed, a mere week ago, that he was to have been cast for the central part.
He found Inspector Combridge looking out for him as he entered the court. He had no wish either to treat him with lack of confidence or to break his promise to August Garten, whether or not it had been the police she had had in mind. He had prepared himself against such an encounter, and said at once: “Don’t ask me now, but tomorrow morning I hope to have something to tell you,” and was relieved when the Inspector accepted that assurance, and hurried on, having other urgencies to distract his mind.
NOS. 1 to 20 Vincent Street consisted of a row of adjoining houses which were narrow and high. They had basements, and four floors above, on each of which were two rooms only.
No. 13 was rented by two sisters who, like Mrs. Benson, lived in the basement, and made their living by letting the rooms above. They did the whole work of the house, beside waiting upon their various lodgers, and it is not hard to believe that, as they said, they slept well, and were indifferent to noises during the night.
Of the four floors which they let off, the two rooms at the top were rented by Peter Entwistle.
Those on the next had been occupied by a man named Bigland, and a female companion whom he called his sister, until a few weeks before, when the woman had died, since which date he had been the sole tenant of this floor.
The two rooms on the second floor were rented separately by Miss Vivian Perrin, and Miss Gracie Fortescue, two young ladies who occupied them more or less in common, or as the exigencies of their occupation required. They were frequently out during the night hours, and less disposed to regard the movements of others than concerned that their own should be unobserved. They professed anxiety to assist the police, with whom they preferred to maintain relations as friendly as their occupation allowed, but they said, with apparent frankness, that they were unable to do so on this occasion.
On the ground floor, a single room was rented by Miss Patricia Welkins, an ancient invalid who shared it with rather numerous cats. She had been an actress in pre historic days, and was very willing to talk to Inspector Combridge concerning her triumphs and acquaintances during the latter half of the previous century, but she showed less interest in more recent events.
As to people passing in and out during the night, the nuisance was too frequent for the observation or memory of separate instances. On the night of the 4th inst.? No doubt there were. Probably dozens. But she had no detailed recollection whatever.
The opposite room was rented by a registered alien of doubtful character, who was often absent for long periods, of which this had been one. He returned to it four days after the murder, saying that he had been abroad, which his passport confirmed.
All the occupants of the house, except Miss Welkins, were in possession of latchkeys, and went in and out at their own discretion.
Among these people, Inspector Combridge had found in John Bigland the only, and fortunately a valuable and talkative witness. When the court reassembled, Mr. Dunkover put him into the box.
He was a short thick-bearded man, with a gruff voice, and a grey profusion of unbrushed hair. He suffered from rheumatic troubles, and appeared to walk with difficulty.
He gave his name, and 13 Vincent Street as his address, with an aggressive air, his glance going defiantly right and left over the crowded court, as though challenging contradiction from those who heard.
He said he was a master-plumber by trade. He occupied the two rooms of the third floor of No. 13. There were two attic rooms on the fourth floor over his head.
He explained that he was responsible for two rooms because; one had been occupied until recently by an unmarried sister, who had died about five weeks before. He had been in no haste to give up the room because the furniture and other contents were his. He looked round as he said this as though expecting contradiction, and ready to resent it when it appeared. His attitude stirred a ribald and possibly baseless doubt in some listeners’ minds that the lady might have been of a less innocent relationship.
On the night of the 4th he had been awake, suffering from a sharp attack of sciatica. The rooms overhead were occupied by Mr. Entwistle, whom he knew well, and whom he recognized as the man in the dock. He was a left-handed man. He had seen him sign a receipt with his left hand.
He was sure that he would have heard anyone ascend or descend the attic stairs on the night in question. He had, in fact, heard light steps descending at some time before 3 a.m. He had not doubted that they were those of a woman, and of one who had been anxious not to be overheard. He had supposed that Mr. Entwistle had been entertaining an illicit visitor, and had thought no more about it until Inspector Combridge had interviewed him.
Mr. Huddleston was unable to shake this testimony. The man was aggressively sure that he had not slept. Anyone who had had sciatica would understand that. He had heard no one getting
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