Find the Innocent (10 page)

“I guessed right,” grinned Benjoy.

“Yeh! But you forgot to guess that she won't give evidence.” Curwen ended the social occasion by giving orders which compelled Benjoy to leave his coffee unfinished. He himself went to the manager's office, speaking first to the manager and then on the intercom.

“Miss Aspland? … Mr. Stranack has just told me about his interview with Mrs. Brengast. If convenient, I will be with you in five minutes.”

Curwen employed the five minutes in giving himself a pep-talk on the tactics of handling a rich but reluctant witness. Mostly, they were more afraid of the newspapers than of the police.

As Jill relayed Curwen's message she felt renewed doubt of Veronica. The fact that Stranack had instantly repeated his story to the police gave it extra weight.

“You ought to have your lawyer with you before you talk to the Inspector again,” she said. “You clear out and I'll tell him what happened, without committing you.”

“Not for anything!” laughed Veronica. “Cheer up, darling! This is going to be fun. The Inspector is sure to believe what Stranack told him and I think he's going to make a first class fool of himself. We'll be very nice to him and give him coffee.”

There was no time to bully her into behaving sensibly. How mulish these petted women could be! Bold and resourceful in the wrong places at the wrong times. With an exclusively personal angle on civilisation. Charm a police inspector and you had charmed the police force and the Public Prosecutor and the Press, who would all pet you. And how strong they were in spite of their inanity! Veronica, ordering the coffee on the intercom., was suddenly looking her best. The standard furniture of the standard sitting-room made the dinner gown look festive, turned Veronica herself into a visitor from that vaguely defined world of beautiful women and powerful men created by
The Prattler
and its kind.

“You only half believe me, don't you, Jill?”

“I suppose I half believe that you're telling the truth, if that's what you mean.”

“I don't blame you! All because that wretched ‘Mystery Woman' girl happened to go by Wheatley and Salisbury. That was a bit of bad luck and it upsets us because I nearly always have good luck.”

“I wouldn't count on luck with that Inspector. He'll smirk at you whatever you tell him. Then he'll trot off and check everything you've said and if it doesn't add up, he'll cut out the smirk.”

“Jill darling, if you want me to say it, I swear to you that Stranack was lying—putting on an absurd act that had nothing to do with anything real that I know of.” She held up her wedding ring finger. “And I shall go on swearing it in a law court or anywhere else—even if all the cars, and trains and things fit into the wrong places.”

In short, the police were to be chased off the premises by a Bold Resolution. Jill opened the door at Curwen's knock.

There was no change in Curwen's manner. He still had the air of an official who would hate to be officious. He accepted Veronica's offer of coffee and listened while Jill reported on Stranack.

“And how did he take it, Mrs. Brengast, when you flatly denied everything?”

“He didn't take it—he simply ignored it. He explained that if I would tell you in private there would be no publicity.”

“He's quite right there,” said Curwen quickly. “We would take the statement from you and it would be a so-called secret document, except for the defence. And the defence could only lose by challenging it—meaning that it would remain secret.”

“How interesting!” said Veronica.

“What did he hope to gain?” asked Jill.

“That puzzled me for a minute or two.” Curwen made a confession of it. “He couldn't expect to coax Mrs. Brengast into saying she was there if he knew she wasn't!” Curwen produced the chuckle that was part of his equipment. “He's taken a room in this hotel—which isn't exactly cheap, and he's admitted he's hard up. It's my guess that he is cooking up a story for the newspapers—for spot cash.”

“Will the newspapers print a cooked-up story?” asked Jill.

“Yes or no, according to how you look at it, Miss Aspland. They won't draw any conclusions. They'll use only statements which can't be disproved. Take this wedding ring story, f'r instance.”

“Look—” interrupted Veronica. “There isn't any wedding ring story!”

Curwen looked at the wedding ring as if he disliked it.

“The trouble is that one wedding ring is very like another—”

“Not Mrs. Brengast's,” cut in Jill, receiving an angry glance from Veronica. “It's engraved.”

“That's good news!” exclaimed Curwen. “Stranack didn't tell me that. Perhaps you would let me examine that ring, Mrs. Brengast, and I can tick it off.”

“I'd really rather not!” protested Veronica. “My husband was a romantic-minded man, Inspector, and the inscription is very personal.”

“Veronica,” warned Jill, “you really must show it. Otherwise you'll be obstructing the Inspector.”

“Oh, very well! I don't care! It says ‘Vevey/Piggy'. And the date of our wedding. Now laugh!”

She handed the ring to Curwen, who read the inscription and copied it before returning the ring.

In the meantime Jill was reaching a conclusion.

“Mr. Curwen, please tell me if I'm wrong. A ring may have been taken from a woman's hand and thrown into the river. But it cannot have been
that
ring?”

“I can't see how you can be wrong, Miss Aspland,” answered Curwen, guardedly. Memory threw up a mental image of Stranack, naked, about to dive into the river—let that pass, for the moment. “If Stranack ever had that ring in his keeping he had only to hand it to me to prove his tale. That's common sense.”

“Then are you not bound to believe Mrs. Brengast's assertion that she was not at the lockhouse?”

“Just a minute! Let's see first how strong a case Stranack has got for the newspapers. The wedding ring story will just be a bit of romantic colouring. He'll tell them, Mrs. Brengast, that you used that telephone in the small hours to call a car and that you went by Wheatley Junction to Salisbury. How do we kill that?”

“Wouldn't it be simplest to ask my sister?”

“The local police did that for us. Your sister says she was in bed and asleep when you knocked and she didn't notice the time. So that doesn't help us. And another thing—I'd almost forgotten! We've found the man who gave you a lift from Diddington. He's staying in the town here.”

“And he has told you that he did not drive me to Renchester!” flashed Veronica. “I got out of his car a long way before Renchester. If he told you why I got out, you'll know why I didn't tell you. A woman who explains that she's so irresistible that men misbehave themselves gets a nasty laugh, Inspector.”

“Not from a policeman in a murder case, Mrs. Brengast.”

“And, besides, it made no difference,” continued Veronica, with the same impatience. “Within a few minutes I got another lift. I don't suppose I lost as much as ten minutes.”

“But you did not take the number of the second car and you do not know the name of the owner. So as far as the newspapers are concerned you can't disprove Stranack's version.” Curwen was not overawed by anybody's impatience.

Jill held it against Veronica that she had not mentioned the change of cars—if there
had
been a change of cars—it revived the doubt which had wilted when the wedding ring story was discounted.

“Can't we get the B.B.C. to call that man?” asked Jill. “Or do the police have to do that?”

“I think we can kill Stranack's story without that,” answered Curwen, “if Mrs. Brengast will co-operate.”

“Of course I will co-operate in everything!” The impatience dissolved into glowing comradeship. “What must I do, Inspector?”

“Just sit where you are,” Curwen went to the intercom. and engaged the manager's office. “Benjoy? … Send him up.”

Jill perceived that this was a trap of some kind. As if the police would concern themselves with what the newspapers printed about Veronica!

“This is the set-up,” said Curwen to Jill, as if she were a colleague. “Each of these three men claims that he himself was the one who stayed in the lockhouse. We don't know which of 'em is telling the truth. One of them won't admit or deny that a lady was with him—”

“He sounds the nicest of the lot!” said Veronica.

“You've seen Stranack. The one that's coming up is Canvey. His tale is much the same as Stranack's—except that he claims he doesn't know the lady's name and address. Whatever he says in here, he's certain to scotch Stranack's tale to the newspapers.”

Oh no, the Inspector didn't care all that about the newspapers! To Jill it was clear that he believed Veronica was the “Mystery Girl”—that Canvey would fail to identify her and so reveal that he had not been at the lockhouse.

She was certain of this when Curwen himself answered the knock on the door with a loud “Come in”, which drowned Veronica's voice. As he did so, he stepped aside so that, when Canvey opened the door, the first person he saw was Veronica.

“Caroline!”
exclaimed Canvey. Catching sight of Curwen. “Hullo, Inspector! Splendid!”

“My name is not Caroline—”

“I know it isn't. What does that matter! Perhaps it's insulting to thank you for coming forward, but I do thank you. I'm terribly sorry it was necessary.”

“You see!” said Veronica to Curwen. “It's the same thing over again. It's failed.”

Curwen strode forward.

“What is this lady's name?”

“I don't know. Why this obsession with names? We used names of our own. Caroline, you don't know my name, do you?—unless the Inspector has told you.”

“I did not know your name until a minute ago,” said Veronica. “For one reason, because I have never seen you before.”

Jill was watching Canvey. He was comically bewildered, like an actor in a farce. Yet he did not look ridiculous. He had created in her a bias in his favour so that, irrationally, she was angry with him for floundering.

He edged nearer Curwen, as if seeking an ally.

“Which side are we on, Inspector?”

Curwen ignored him and spoke to Veronica.

“Are you quite certain you have never seen Mr. Canvey before, Mrs. Brengast?”

“Never!” said Veronica.

“Mrs. Brengast!” cried Canvey. “Good Lord! Does that mean that you're WillyBee's wife?”

No one felt the need to answer.

“Mr. Canvey, do you still assert that this lady was with you at the lockhouse last night?”

“That's a formal question, I suppose, because you can see darned well I do. The answer is—yes. Now, here's a formal question for you, Inspector. Am I under suspicion of murder because I cannot prove that I was at that lockhouse?”

“I can't answer questions like that.”

“You could have said ‘no' if it weren't so.” Veronica's indifference was unruffled when he stood close to her. “I was detained on suspicion this morning. I've been released on a legal technicality. The suspicion remains. I broke my promise involuntarily as I came into this room. I took for granted that your honour had compelled you to come forward. I still do.”

Jill liked that. His attitude now seemed more convincing than Stranack's.

“Inspector, this is ridiculous!” said Veronica. “Do I have to keep on saying I've never seen him before?”

“I'll tell you what happened and you can do the proving. She turned up at about dusk and stayed until a bit after two.”

“What was she wearing?” asked Jill.

“Hullo! Are you in on this?” He turned as if he had not noticed her before, looking fixedly at her and added: “But you can't be!”

“You were going to tell us what she was wearing.”

“I was not. I can't. I know only that her clothes were of very fine material. She had been walking for some distance. She was exhausted. I revived her with a drink.” He snapped his fingers. “She had gin and orange juice. We don't drink orange juice. I opened the only bottle—wrapped in cellophane. There'd be finger prints on that bottle, Inspector—not that it actually proves anything.”

“There are prints on that bottle—but they're not yours,” said Curwen and added, “Not that it proves anything, as you say.”

“I can't account for that!” Canvey frowned and was silent.

“Anything else?” asked Curwen.

“Nothing at all that will stand up to this kind of question.” His eyes were on Jill. “Our friendship, let me say, grew very rapidly. We both thought it something unique and worthwhile. We were both mistaken.”

“How long did you sit talking over the drinks?” asked Curwen.

“In terms of the clock, I don't know. In terms of advancing a human relationship—about three weeks, I suppose. Before she telephoned Weston's Garage, she told me—” He paused and turned to Veronica. “I've thought of something you told me about your private circumstances—something that can be proved. Do I have to say it?”

“It makes no difference to me what you say, Mr. Canvey.”

“She told me—some time after midnight—that she had a marriage settlement in a large sum—which she would forfeit if her presence at the lockhouse were known to her husband.”

“Anyone could find that out!” snapped Jill. “It's registered at Somerset House.”

“Is it! I say, are you a lawyer?”

“No.”

“Friend of the Accused? I prophecy the friendship will not outlast this case. I'm going to put a pretty hefty strain on it because now I've thought of something that's not registered anywhere. Ask your friend where her wedding ring is.”

“Let me guess,” said Jill. “You took it from her finger and threw it into the river.”