The Crime at Black Dudley (24 page)

Martin leant forward as he spoke and beamed at them triumphantly.

‘I've worked it all out,' he said, ‘and, putting my becoming modesty aside, I will now detail to you the facts which my superlative deductions have brought to light and which only require the paltry matter of proof to make them as clear as glass to the meanest intelligence. Get the scene into your mind. Whitby, a poor pawn in his chief's hands, a man whose liberty, perhaps his very life, hangs upon the word of his superior, von Faber; this man leads his chief to the Colonel's desk to find that precious income-tax form or whatever it was they were all so keen about, and when he gets there the cupboard is bare, as the classics have it.' Martin, who had been gradually working himself up, now broke into a snatch of imaginary dialogue:

‘ “It must be on Coombe himself,” growls the Hun,' he began.

‘ “Of course,” agrees the pawn, adding mentally: “Heaven pray it may be so,” or words to that effect. “Go and see,
you!
” venoms the Hun, and off goes Whitby, fear padding at his heels.'

He paused for breath and regarded them soberly.

‘Seriously, though,' he continued with sudden gravity. ‘The chap must have had a nasty ten minutes. He knew that if anything had gone wrong and old Coombe had somehow managed to double-cross the gang, as guardian he was for it with von Faber at his nastiest. Look now,' he went on cheerfully, ‘this is where the deduction comes in; as I work it out, as soon as Whitby entered the darkened part of
the house, someone put the dagger in his hand and then, I should say, the whole idea occurred to him. He went up to old Coombe in the dark, asked him for the papers; Coombe replied that he hadn't got them. Then Whitby, maddened with the thought of the yarn he was bound to take back to von Faber, struck the old boy in the back and, after making a rapid search, took the dagger, joined in the game for thirty seconds, maybe – just enough time to hand the thing on to somebody – and then dashed back to Faber and Gideon, with his news. How about that?'

He smiled at them with deep satisfaction – he had no doubts himself.

For some minutes his audience were silent. This solution was certainly very plausible. At last Abbershaw raised his head. The expression on his face was almost hopeful.

‘It's not a bad idea, Martin,' he said thoughtfully. ‘In fact, the more I think about it the more likely it seems to become.'

Martin pressed his argument home eagerly.

‘I feel like that too,' he said. ‘You see, it explains so many things. First of all, it gives a good reason why von Faber thought that one of our crowd had done it. Then it also makes it clear why Whitby never turned up again. And then it has another advantage – it provides a motive. No one else had any
reason
for killing the old boy. As far as I can see he seems to have been very useful to his own gang and no harm to anybody else. Candidly now, don't you think I'm obviously right?'

He looked from one to the other of them questioningly.

Meggie was frowning.

‘There is just one thing you haven't explained, Martin,' she said slowly. ‘What happened to the dagger? When it was in my hand it had blood on it. Someone snatched it from me before I could scream, and it wasn't seen again until the next morning, when it was all bright and clean again and back in its place in the trophy.'

Martin looked a little crestfallen.

‘That had occurred to me,' he admitted. ‘But I decided that in the excitement of the alarm whoever had it chucked
it down where it was found next morning by one of the servants and put back.'

Meggie looked at him and smiled.

‘Martin,' she said, ‘your mother has the most marvellous butler in the world. Plantagenet, I do believe, would pick up a blood-stained dagger in the early morning, have it cleaned, and hang it up on its proper nail, and then consider it beneath his dignity to mention so trifling a matter during the police inquiries afterwards. But believe me, that man is unique. Besides, the only servants there were members of the gang. Had they found it we should probably have heard about it. Anyway, they wouldn't have cleaned it and hung it up again.'

Martin nodded dubiously, and the momentary gleam of hope disappeared from Abbershaw's face.

‘Of course,' said Martin. ‘Whitby may have put it back himself. Gone nosing around during the night, you know, and found it, and thinking, “Well, we can't have this about,” put it back in its proper place and said no more about it.' He brightened visibly. ‘Come to think of it, it's very likely. That makes my theory all the stronger, what?'

The others were not so easily convinced.

‘He might,' said Meggie, ‘but there's not much reason why he should go nosing about at night, as you say. And even so it doesn't explain who took it out of my hand, does it?'

Martin was shaken but by no means overwhelmed.

‘Oh, well,' he said airily, ‘all that point is a bit immaterial, don't you think? After all, it's the main motive and opportunity and questions that are important. Anyone might have snatched the dagger from you. It is one of those damn fool gallant gestures that old Chris Kennedy might have perpetrated. It might have been anyone playing in the game. However, in the main, I think we've spotted our man. Don't you, Abbershaw?'

‘I hope so.'

The fervency of the little doctor's reply surprised them.

Martin was gratified.

‘I
know
I'm right,' he said. ‘Now all we've got to do is to prove it.'

Abbershaw agreed.

‘That's so,' he said. ‘But I don't think that will be so easy, Martin. You see, we've got to find the chap first, and without police aid that's going to be a well-nigh impossible job. We can't bring the Yard into it until we've got past theories.'

‘No, of course not,' said Martin. ‘But I say,' he added, as a new thought occurred to him, ‘there is one thing, though. Whitby was the cove who had the wind-up, wasn't he? No one else turned a hair, and if there was a guilty conscience amongst the gang, surely it was his?'

This suggestion impressed his listeners more than any of his other arguments. Abbershaw looked up excitedly.

‘I do believe you're right,' he said. ‘What do you think, Meggie?'

The girl hesitated. As she recollected Mrs Meade's story of the discovery of the murder, Martin's theory became rapidly more and more plausible.

‘Yes,' she said again. ‘I believe he's hit it.'

Martin grinned delightedly.

‘That's fine,' he said. ‘Now all we've got to do is to find the chap and get the truth out of him. This is going to be great. Now what's the best way to get on to the trail of those two johnnies? Toddle round to all the crematoriums in the country and make inquiries?'

The others were silent. Here was a problem which, without the assistance of Scotland Yard, they were almost powerless to tackle.

They were still discussing it when, fifteen minutes later, Michael Prenderby walked in. His pale face was flushed as if from violent exertion and he began to talk eagerly as soon as he got into the room.

‘Sorry I'm late,' he said; ‘but I've had an adventure. Walked right into it in the Lea Bridge Road. I stopped to have a plug put in and there it was staring at me. I stared at it – I thought I was seeing things at first – until the garage man got quite embarrassed.'

Martin Watt regarded the new-comer coldly.

‘Look here, Michael,' he said with reproach. ‘We're here to discuss a murder, you know.'

‘Well?' Prenderby looked pained and surprised. ‘Aren't I helping you? Isn't this a most helpful point?'

Abbershaw glanced at him sharply.

‘What are you talking about?' he said.

Prenderby stared at him.

‘Why, the car, of course,' he said. ‘What else could it be? The car,' he went on, as they regarded him uncompre-hendingly for a moment on so. ‘
The
car. The incredible museum specimen in which that precious medico carted off the poor old bird's body. There it was, sitting up looking at me like a dowager-duchess.'

‘If you'd only keep quiet,' said Michael Prenderby, edging a chair between himself and the vigorous Martin who was loudly demanding particulars, ‘I'll tell you all about it. The garage is half-way down the Lea Bridge Road, on the left-hand side not far past the river or canal or whatever it is. It's called “The Ritz” – er – because there's a coffee-stall incorporated with it. It's not a very big place. The usual type – a big white-washed shed with a tin roof – no tiles or anything. While the chap was fixing the plug the doors were open, so I looked in, and there, sitting in a corner, a bit like “Dora” and a bit like a duchess, but unmistakably herself, was Colonel Coombe's original mechanical brougham.'

‘But are you sure?'

Martin was dancing with excitement.

‘Absolutely positive.' Prenderby was emphatic. ‘I went and had a look at the thing. The laddie in the garage was enjoying the joke as much as anyone. He hadn't had time to examine it, he said, but he'd never set eyes on anything
like it in his life. I didn't know what to do. I didn't think I'd wait and see the fellows without telling you because I didn't know what schemes you were hatching, so I told the garage man that I'd like to buy the bus as a museum piece. He told me that the people who brought it in were coming back for it some time tonight and he'd tell them. I thought we'd get down there first and be waiting for them as they came in. Of course the old car may have changed hands, but even so –'

‘Rather!' Martin was enthusiastic. ‘We'll go down there right away, shall we? All of us?'

‘Not Meggie,' said Abbershaw quickly. ‘No,' he added with determination, as she turned to him appealingly. ‘You had your share of von Faber's gang at Black Dudley, and I'm not going to risk anything like that again.'

Meggie looked at him, a faintly amused expression playing round the corners of her mouth, but she did not attempt to argue with him: George was to be master in his own home, she had decided.

The three men set off in Prenderby's small Riley, Abbershaw tucked uncomfortably between the other two.

Martin Watt grinned.

‘I've got a gun this time,' he said. ‘Our quiet country week-end taught me that much.'

Abbershaw was silent. He, too, had invested in an automatic, since his return to London. But he was not proud of the fact, since he secretly considered that its purchase had been a definite sign of weakness.

They wormed their way through the traffic, which was mercifully thin at that time of night, although progress was by no means easy. A clock in Shoreditch struck eleven as they went through the borough, and Martin spoke fervently.

‘Good lord, I hope we don't miss them,' he said, and added with a chuckle, ‘I bet old Kennedy would give his ears to be on this trip. How far down is the place, Prenderby?'

‘Not far now,' said Michael, as he swung into the unprepossessing tram-lined thoroughfare which leads to the ‘Bakers' Arms' and Wanstead.

‘And you say the garage man was friendly?' said Abbershaw.

‘Oh, perfectly,' said Prenderby, with conviction. ‘I think we can count on him. What exactly is our plan of campaign?'

Martin spoke airily.

‘We just settle down and wait for the fellows, and when they come we get hold of them and make them talk.'

Abbershaw looked dubious. Now that he was back in the civilization of London he was inclined to feel that the lawless methods of Black Dudley were no longer permissible, no matter what circumstances should arise. Martin had more of the adventurous spirit left in him, however. It was evident that he had made up his mind about their plan of campaign.

‘The only thing these fellows understand is force,' he said vigorously. ‘We're going to talk to 'em in their mother tongue.'

Abbershaw would have demurred, but at this moment all conversation was suspended by their sudden arrival at the garage. They found ‘The Ritz' still open, though business even at the coffee-stall was noticeably slack.

As soon as the car came to a standstill, a loose-limbed, raw-boned gentleman in overalls and a trilby hat came out to meet them.

He regarded them with a cold suspicion in his eyes which even Prenderby's friendly grin did not thaw.

‘I've come back to see about the old car I wanted to buy –' Prenderby began, with his most engaging grin.

‘You did, did you?' The words were delivered with a burst of Homeric geniality that would have deceived nobody. ‘But, it's not for sale, see! You'd better back your car out, there's no room to turn here.'

Prenderby was frankly puzzled; clearly this was the last reception he had expected.

‘He's been told to hold his tongue,' whispered Martin, and then, turning to the garage man, he smiled disarmingly. ‘You've no idea what a disappointment this is to me,' he said. ‘I collect relics of this sort and by my friend's description
the specimen you have here seems to be very nearly perfect. Let me have a look at it at any rate.'

He slipped hastily out of the car as he spoke and made a move in the direction of the darkened garage door.

‘Oh no, you don't!' The words were attended by the suspicious and unfriendly gentleman in the overalls and at the same moment Martin found himself confronted with the whole six-foot-three of indignant aggressiveness, while the voice, dropping a few tones, continued softly, ‘There's a lot of people round here what are friends of mine. Very particular friends. I'd 'op it if I was you.'

Martin stared at him with apparent bewilderment.

‘My dear man, what's the matter?' he said. ‘Surely you're not the type of fellow to be unreasonable when someone asks you to show him a car. There's no reason why I should be wasting your time even.'