“Boyfriend.”
“Thought the boyfriend was Jay Harmer.”
“Was. This one newer.”
“‘Love nest killing’?”
“Wouldn’t mind betting.”
“Supposed to be cold, I thought?”
“Yes. So they say. Fooled them, seemingly. Good enough reason for murder,
I should think.”
The evidence was of the most formal kind the finding and identification of
the body—and as soon as that had been offered the coroner brought the
proceedings to an end, and fixed no date for resumption.
Hopkins had decided that, the Clay death being apparently no accident, and
Scotland Yard not being able so far to make any arrest, the person to
cultivate was undoubtedly the man in the flannel bags. Tisdall, his name was.
Bart said that every newspaper man in England had tried to interview him the
previous day (Hopkins being then en route from the poker murder) but that he
had been exceptionally tough. Called them ghouls, and vultures, and rats, and
other things less easy of specification, and had altogether seemed unaware of
the standing of the Press. No one was rude to the Press anymore—not
with impunity, that was.
But Hopkins had great faith in his power to seduce the human mind.
“Your name Tisdall, by any chance?” he asked casually, “finding” himself
alongside the young man in the crowded procession to the door.
The man’s face hardened into instant enmity.
“Yes, it is,” he said aggressively.
“Not old Tom Tisdall’s nephew?”
The face cleared swiftly.
“Yes. Did you know Uncle Tom?”
“A little,” admitted Hopkins, no whit dismayed to find that there really
was a Tom Tisdall.
“You seem to know about my giving up the Stannaway?”
“Yes, someone told me,” Hopkins said, wondering if the Stannaway was a
house, or what? “What are you doing now?”
By the time they had reached the door, Hopkins had established himself.
“Can I give you a lift somewhere? Come and have lunch with me?”
A pip! In half an hour he’d have a front-page story. And this was the baby
they said was difficult! No, there was no doubt of it: he, James Brooke
Hopkins, was the greatest newspaper man in the business.
“Sorry, Mr. Hopkins,” said Grant’s pleasant voice at his shoulder. “I
don’t want to spoil your party, but Mr. Tisdall has an appointment with me.”
And, since Tisdall betrayed his astonishment and Hopkins his instant putting
two and two together, he added, “We’re hoping he can help us.”
“I don’t understand,” Tisdall was beginning. And Hopkins, seeing that
Tisdall was unaware of Grant’s identity, rushed in with glad
maliciousness.
“That is Scotland Yard,” he said. “Inspector Grant. Never had an unsolved
crime to his name.”
“I hope you write my obituary,” Grant said.
“I hope I do!” the journalist said, with fervor.
And then they noticed Tisdall. His face was like parchment, dry and old
and expressionless. Only the pulse beating hard at his temple suggested a
living being. Journalist and detective stood looking in mutual astonishment
at so unexpected a result of Hopkins’s announcement. And then, seeing the
man’s knees beginning to sag, Grant took him hastily by the arm.
“Here! Come and sit down. My car is just here.”
He edged the apparently blind Tisdall through the dawdling, chattering
crowd, and pushed him into the rear seat of a dark touring car.
“Westover,” he said to the chauffeur, and got in beside Tisdall.
As they went at snail’s pace towards the high road, Grant saw Hopkins
still standing where they had left him. That Jammy Hopkins should stay
without moving for more than three consecutive minutes argued that he was
being given furiously to think. From now on—the Inspector
sighed—the camelfly would be a bloodhound.
And the Inspector, too, had food for his wits. He had been called in the
previous night by a worried County Constabulary who had no desire to make
themselves ridiculous by making mountains out of molehills, but who found
themselves unable to explain away satisfactorily one very small, very
puzzling obstacle to their path. They had all viewed the obstacle, from the
Chief Constable down to the sergeant who had taken charge on the beach, had
been rude about each other’s theories, and had in the end agreed on only one
thing: that they wanted to push the responsibility on to someone else’s
shoulders. It was all very well to hang on to your own crime, and the kudos
of a solution, when there
was
a crime. But to decide in cold blood to
announce a crime, on the doubtful evidence of that common little object on
the table; to risk, not the disgrace of failure, but the much worse slings of
ridicule, was something they could not find it in their hearts to do. And so
Grant had canceled his seat at the Criterion and had journeyed down to
Westover. He had inspected the stumbling block, listened with patience to
their theories and with respect to the police surgeon’s story, and had gone
to bed in the small hours with a great desire to interview Robert Tisdall.
And now here was Tisdall, beside him, still speechless and half-fainting
because he had been confronted without warning by Scotland Yard. Yes, there
was a case; no doubt of it. Well, there couldn’t be any questioning with Cork
in the driving seat, so until they got back to Westover Tisdall might be left
to recover. Grant took a flask from the car pocket and offered it to him.
Tisdall took it shakily but made good use of it. Presently he apologized for
his weakness.
“I don’t know what went wrong. This affair has been an awful shock to me.
I haven’t been sleeping. Keep going over things in my mind. Or rather, my
mind keeps doing it; I can’t stop it. And then, at the inquest it
seemed—I say, is something not right? I mean, was it not a simple
drowning? Why did they postpone the end of the inquest?”
“There are one or two things that the police find puzzling.”
“As what, for instance?”
“I think we won’t discuss it until we get to Westover.”
“Is anything I say to be used in evidence against me?” The smile was wry
but the intention was good.
“You took the words out of my mouth,” the Inspector said lightly, and
silence fell between them.
By the time they reached the Chief Constable’s room in the County Police
offices, Tisdall was looking normal if a little worn. In fact, so normal did
he look that when Grant said, “This is Mr. Tisdall,” the Chief Constable, who
was a genial soul except when someone jumped in his pocket out hunting,
almost shook hands with him, but recollected himself before any harm was
done.
“Howdyudo. Harrump!” He cleared his throat to give himself time. Couldn’t
do that, of course. My goodness, no. Fellow suspected of murder. Didn’t look
it, no, upon his soul he didn’t. But there was no telling these days. The
most charming people were—well, things he hadn’t known till lately
existed. Very sad. But couldn’t shake hands, of course. No, definitely not.
“Harrump! Fine morning! Bad for racing, of course. Going very hard. But good
for the holiday makers. Mustn’t be selfish in our pleasures. You a racing
man? Going to Goodwood? Oh, well, perhaps—No. Well, I expect you
and—and our friend here—” somehow one didn’t want to rub in the
fact of Grant’s inspectorship. Nice-looking chap. Well brought up, and all
that—“would like to talk in peace. I’m going to lunch. The Ship,” he
added, for Grant’s benefit, in case the Inspector wanted him. “Not that the
food’s very good there, but it’s a self-respecting house. Not like these
Marine things. Like to get steak and potatoes without going through sun
lounges for them.” And the Chief Constable took himself out.
“A Freedy Lloyd part,” Tisdall said.
Grant looked up appreciatively from pulling forward a chair.
“You’re a theater fan.”
“I was a fan of most things.”
Grant’s mind focused on the peculiarity of the phrase. “Why ‘was’?” he
asked.
“Because I’m broke. You need money to be a fan.”
“You won’t forget that formula about ‘anything you say,’ will you?”
“No, thanks. But it doesn’t make any difference. I can only tell you the
truth. If you draw wrong deductions from it then that’s your fault, not
mine.”
“So it’s I who am on trial. A nice point. I appreciate it. Well, try me
out. I want to know how you were living in the same house with a woman whose
name you didn’t know? You did tell the County Police that, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I expect it sounds incredible. Silly, too. But it’s quite simple.
You see, I was standing on the pavement opposite the Gaiety one night, very
late, wondering what to do. I had fivepence in my pocket, and that was
fivepence too much, because I had aimed at having nothing at all. And I was
wondering whether to have a last go at spending the fivepence (there isn’t
much one can do with fivepence) or to cheat, and forget about the odd
pennies. So—”
“Just a moment. You might explain to a dullard just why these five pennies
should have been important.”
“They were the end of a fortune, you see. Thirty thousand. I inherited it
from my uncle. My mother’s brother. My real name is Stannaway, but Uncle Tom
asked that I should take his name with the money. I didn’t mind. The Tisdalls
were a much better lot than the Stannaways, anyhow. Stamina and ballast and
all that. If I’d been a Tisdall I wouldn’t be broke now, but I’m nearly all
Stannaway. I’ve been the perfect fool, the complete Awful Warning. I was in
an architect’s office when I inherited the money, living in rooms and just
making do; and it went to my head to have what seemed more than I could ever
spend. I gave up my job and went to see all the places I’d wanted to see and
never hoped to. New York and Hollywood and Budapest and Rome and Capri and
God knows where else. I came back to London with about two thousand, meaning
to bank it and get a job. It would have been easy enough two years
before—I mean, to bank the money. I hadn’t anyone to help spend it
then. But in those two years I had gathered a lot of friends all over the
world, and there were never less than a dozen of them in London at the same
time. So I woke up one morning to find that I was down to my last hundred. It
was a bit of a shock. Like cold water. I sat down and thought for the first
time for two years. I had the choice of two things: sponging—you can
live in luxury anywhere in the world’s capitals for six months if you’re a
good sponger: I know; I supported dozens of that sort—and disappearing.
Disappearing seemed easier. I could drop out quite easily. People would just
say, ‘Where’s Bobby Tisdall these days?’ and they’d just take it for granted
that I was in some of the other corners of the world where their sort went,
and that they’d run into me one of these days. I was supposed to be
suffocatingly rich, you see, and it was easier to drop out and leave them
thinking of me like that than to stay and be laughed at when the truth began
to dawn on them. I paid my bills, and that left me with fifty-seven pounds. I
thought I’d have one last gamble then, and see if I could pick up enough to
start me off on the new level. So I had thirty pounds—fifteen each way;
that’s the bit of Tisdall in me—on Red Rowan in the Eclipse. He
finished fifth. Twenty-odd pounds isn’t enough to start anything except a
barrow. There was nothing for it but tramping. I wasn’t much put out at the
thought of tramping—it would be a change—but you can’t tramp with
twenty-seven pounds in the bank, so I decided to blue it all in one grand
last night. I promised myself that I’d finish up without a penny in my
pocket. Then I’d pawn my evening things for some suitable clothes and hit the
road. What I hadn’t reckoned with was that you can’t pawn things in the
west-end on a Saturday midnight. And you can’t take to the road in evening
things without being conspicuous. So I was standing there, as I said, feeling
resentful about these five pennies and wondering what I was to do about my
clothes and a place to sleep. I was standing by the traffic lights at the
Aldwych, just before you turn around into Lancaster Place, when a car was
pulled up by the red lights. Chris was in it, alone—”
“Chris?”
“I didn’t know her name, then. She looked at me for a little. The street
was very quiet. Just us two. And we were so close that it seemed natural when
she smiled and said, ‘Take you anywhere, mister?’ I said: ‘Yes. Land’s End.’
She said: ‘A bit off my route. Chatham, Faversham, Canterbury, and points
east?’ Well, it was one solution. I couldn’t go on standing there, and I
couldn’t think of a water-tight tale that would get me a bed in a friend’s
house. Besides, I felt far away from all that crowd already. So I got in
without thinking much about it. She was charming to me. I didn’t tell her all
I’m telling you, but she soon found out I was broke to the wide. I began to
explain, but she said: ‘All right, I don’t want to know. Let’s accept each
other on face value. You’re Robin and I’m Chris.’ I’d told her my name was
Robert Stannaway, and without knowing it she used my family pet name. The
crowd called me Bobby. It was sort of comforting to hear someone call me
Robin again.”
“Why did you say your name was Stannaway?”
“I don’t know. A sort of desire to get away from the fortune side of
things. I hadn’t been much ornament to the name, anyhow. And in my mind I
always thought of myself as Stannaway.”
“All right. Go on.”
“There isn’t much more to tell. She offered me hospitality. Told me she
was alone, but that—well, that I’d be just a guest. I said wasn’t she
taking a chance. She said, ‘Yes, but I’ve taken them all my life and it’s
worked out pretty well, so far.’ It seemed an awkward arrangement to me, but
it turned out just the opposite. She was right about it. It made things very
easy, just accepting each other. In a way (it was queer, but it was like
that) it was as if we had known each other for years. If we had had to start
at scratch and work up, it would have taken us weeks to get to the same
stage. We liked each other a lot. I don’t mean sentimentally, although she
was stunning to look at; I mean I thought her grand. I had no clothes for the
next morning, but I spent that day in a bathing suit and a dressing gown that
someone had left. And on Monday Mrs. Pitts came in to my room and said, ‘Your
suitcase, sir,’ and dumped a case I’d never seen before in the middle of the
floor. It had a complete new outfit in it—tweed coat and flannels,
socks, shirt, everything. From a place in Canterbury. The suitcase was old,
and had a label with my name on it. She had even remembered my name. Well, I
can’t describe to you what I felt about these things. You see, it was the
first time for years that anyone had given me anything. With the crowd it was
take, take, all the time. ‘Bobby’ll pay.’ ‘Bobby’ll lend his car.’ They never
thought of me at all. I don’t think they ever stopped to look at me. Anyhow,
those clothes sort of broke me up. I’d have died for her. She laughed when
she saw me in them—they were reach-me-downs, of course, but they fitted
quite well—and said: ‘Not exactly Bruton Street, but they’ll do. Don’t
say I can’t size a man up.’ So we settled down to having a good time
together, just lazing around, reading, talking, swimming, cooking when Mrs.
Pitts wasn’t there. I put out of my head what was going to happen after. She
said that in about ten days she’d have to leave the cottage. I tried to go
after the first day, out of politeness, but she wouldn’t let me. And after
that I didn’t try. That’s how I came to be staying there, and that’s how I
didn’t know her name.” He drew in his breath in a sharp sigh as he sat back.
“Now I know how these psychoanalysts make money. It’s a long time since I
enjoyed anything like telling you all about myself.”