Woods looked up. “Yes, that is so,” he said concisely. I’ve Riley’s report of Nurse Edwards’s statement. She says she rang two or three times. No one answered, but she heard someone moving in the flat, and concluded Mr. Ewing deliberately didn’t want to answer the door.” He stopped, and for a moment both men sat silent.

  Before the mind of each was a picture of that little scene. Each visualized the lovely drawing-room, with a prostrate figure, and, kneeling by that body, a man, striking and striking, while, only a few yards away, separated by nothing more than a glass-panelled door, the woman had stood quietly waiting for that bell to be answered.

  Woods’s mind flashed back to the body, as he had seen it. Probably the nurse’s action had been even more fatal than she realized. The murderer had already knocked down his victim. That was known from the time fixed by the Duttons’ tea. But he might not have meant to kill. Often men, intending to commit robbery with violence, would knock down and stun their victim, and then go off to make sure of their booty. But this robber had been interrupted by that bell. Its shrill clangour had told him that someone was standing at the door—someone who, in all probability, as the bell rang again, was anxious to get in—and who might possibly force an entrance or fetch help to do so. In a frenzied determination to silence his victim, to prevent his calling out and bringing that person outside bursting in to the rescue, he had struck again and again. Or, perhaps, merely driven frantic with terror by the belief that he was about to be caught red-handed, he had been filled with a mad resolve to make certain, to finish the work he had begun, and so those innumerable blows had rained down on that unprotected head and face, making speech or cry, or even sound, impossible for ever.

  With an inward shudder, Woods switched his mind away from those thoughts. He began to speak again, his voice hard and metallic.

  “So you and the nurse went up together?”

  “Yes, I went with her, and my sister, as it happens, followed us, though that I didn’t know at the moment.”

  ” Time?”

  “Just before 5.30, I should say.”

  “Did you talk at all as you went up?”

  “Yes, a little—not much, but I did say a word or two about her accident.”

  “Do you think your voices would sound up the staircase?”

  ” I suppose mine would. The nurse was feeling rather shaken. She spoke in rather a low voice. We talked a little as we stood at the door before I got it open, that I am sure of. We were a little delayed by her having only her left arm to fumble in her bag for the key. I had to take her bag in the end. I know we were talking then.”

  Woods glanced at his notes. “When you went in, you stood inside the flat?”

  “Yes, I stood for a moment on the mat, with my back to the lobby, pulling the key out of the door. Then I stood waiting, in case Mr. Ewing would see me, and to make sure the nurse was all right. She went towards the drawing-room, and at the same time the man came down the small staircase at the end of the passage.”

  Henry spoke now in a completely colourless, unemotional voice.

  “And the man’s appearance, as far as you can give it?”

  “Fairly tall, about five foot ten or so. Slim. I should say fair, fresh complexioned. A light coloured coat, and a soft hat. He had spectacles—I saw the light catch them.”

  “H’m,” said Woods.” Fair, you think? Your sister, you know, thought he was dark.”

  “Well,” retorted Henry, “I thought him fair. But I can’t really say. How could I have noticed much? He walked rather quickly towards me. He was putting on his hat and turning up his collar. You can’t see much of a man in a moment like that.”

  “Had he a moustache?”

  ” I couldn’t see—his hand was up, pulling on his hat, and hid the lower part of his face.”

  “Would you say he was a working man? What sort of impression did he make on you?”

  Henry hesitated. “No. I didn’t take him for a working man. I thought he was a visitor. Someone staying there for Christmas, or who’d looked in on Mr. Ewing. He didn’t shuffle or hurry. Seemed quite at home. That’s what kept me quiet till he’d passed. That and the nurse taking no notice of him.”

  Woods nodded. He couldn’t altogether blame Godfrey. Yet, if only he’d stood squarely in the doorway, so that the man would have had to push past or speak! Even that would have been some help, would have given a better idea of the fellow. It was no good, however, and the best had to be made of what had been seen.

  “Do you think you could identify him?”

  “Not a hope, Inspector. He seemed quite ordinary to me. Lots of fellows like him. Nothing outstanding to go by whatever.”

  “Well,” said Woods, “I’m sorry, of course, Mr. Godfrey, that you can’t be more definite. Still, you’ve helped us a good deal. Just one or two more questions and I’ve done. Did you notice any stains on this light coat you speak of?”

  “No, I didn’t!” said Henry strongly. “Of course I didn’t! I’m quite sure he had no stains or marks on that coat at all, and he wasn’t rumpled or tousled in any way. Nothing at all odd or untidy about him at all. He looked perfectly normal and all right, Inspector, in every way.”

  “Was he wearing gloves?”

  “No,” replied Henry, after a moment’s thought, “I’m pretty sure he was not. I think I remember his bare hand up at his hat brim.”

  Woods nodded. In one sense he was glad. He had an idea simmering in his head, which Henry’s words confirmed, and, anxious now to return to the flat and verify this, he began pinning his notes together.

  “Yes, that would be so, I think, Mr. Godfrey. Well, that will be all now, thank you. Good day.”

  Then, as Henry, with obvious relief, was turning to go: “Just one moment. I want to get clear about the rug. What did you do with that?”

  “I lifted it,” said Henry, keeping his face and voice stiff, “and I saw what was underneath, and dropped the rug back.”

  “Did you pick it right off?”

  “Yes, I had to. It was sort of crumpled all round him—almost tucked in, in fact. I couldn’t see till I’d got it lifted quite clear.”

  “And then you—?”

  “I flung it down again, and covered him up.”

  ” Did you notice which side you put it down?”

  “Oh, good heavens, no! I just threw it down as quickly as I could. I didn’t stop to see how I did it. I felt”—he paused, then went on—“I felt it was all wet and sticky, and I wanted to let go of it as quickly as I could.”

  Again Woods nodded comprehension. Again he had got the little piece of confirmation he wanted for the theory which he was building up in his mind.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Godfrey. Now that really is all. I shan’t, I think, need to see you again just yet. You’ll be notified, of course, of the inquest.”

  Henry, ruefully aware that the inquest would be more of an ordeal than this interview, went off to his office. Woods, slightly more cheerful than before, prepared to interview the man in whom he was already deeply interested, George Fordham, the murdered man’s nephew and heir.

  ‌Chapter VIII

  The Heir

  A tale comes to my mind, possibly true, probably false.

  Guido, R. Browning.

  George Fordham came into the inspector’s room with an unmistakable air of defiance. He threw his hat and gloves down on the table, and, in answer to Woods’s request that he would sit down, he flung himself into the chair drawn up at the side of the desk, and turned his eyes towards Woods with a sort of unfriendly boldness that at once aroused hostility.

  He was a tall, thin, dark young man, with cadaverous cheeks and a certain raffish air, resembling a tousled hawk.

  At the moment, his appearance was not improved by a strip of plaster which ran from the corner of his mouth up towards his ear, giving him a somewhat piratical appearance.

  Seeing the inspector looking inquisitively at this decoration, Fordham began at once—in an aggressively flippant tone:

  “Sorry I look such a disreputable person, Inspector. All this fuss, and the liquid support I had to give myself to bear up last night, made my hand a bit unsteady this morning. Gave myself a baddish cut. Had to get our local sawbones to patch me up. Yes, he’ll tell you all about it”—quickly, seeing the sceptical look which Woods could not prevent from crossing his face, though he instantly tried to repress it—“I’ve not been scrapping with my wife, or having plates thrown at me. So you needn’t look so disgusted and high-minded. Anyone’s at liberty to cut himself, shaving.”

  Anxious as he was to avoid any preconceived prejudice, the inspector realized that in this man he was going to find no friendliness or co-operation.

  Laying his notebook in front of him, he prepared to listen and question. But before he could start:

  “Well, Inspector,” went on his visitor provocatively, “I suppose this is going to be a miserable affair?”

  “It’s a very unhappy one, certainly, Mr. Fordham,” retorted Woods drily.” The murder of an elderly gentleman, and, I gather, your only near relative, is bound to cause you a good deal of trouble.”

  He paused, for George Fordham burst at once into a loud, harsh laugh.

  “Trouble! Well, yes, trouble in one sense, Inspector, but not in another. I’m not going to make any pretences at all. I dare say you’d see through them if I did,” he added insolently. “My uncle was no sort of use to me when he was alive. Treated me damned badly. There was no love lost between us, I can tell you. And I’m not going to pretend that I feel any sorrow for his death. I shan’t be troubled by his loss in that sense! But I suppose you’re going to give me a lot of bother over it all, that I can foresee for myself. I’m going to be a busy man now, too, I can tell you, so let’s get on with it. You’ve a whole pack of questions you want to put me, I imagine.”

  Seeing that no sympathy or tact need be expended on George Fordham, Woods came at once to the point.

  “Very well, Mr. Fordham, I’ll be glad of any information you can give me with regard to your uncle’s way of life and his associates.”

  “Precious little I can tell you. He and I didn’t hobnob. I don’t suppose I set foot in his flat more than once a year. His friends weren’t mine, either, I can tell you. He’d an old crony—a Major Anstruther—whom he saw fairly often, I believe. And he saw that doctor fellow opposite pretty regularly. Otherwise he’d no men friends or acquaintances that I know of. I suppose it’s men you’re after, isn’t it?”

  The glance which accompanied this remark startled Woods. There was a malevolence, a slyness about it, which cast light on George Fordham’s disposition at any rate.

  “Yes, sir, you’re right. I want to try and account for every man, known to Mr. Ewing, who might have visited his flat, and whom he would readily have admitted.”

  “H’m, yes. I realized all that,” replied Fordham. “I’m no fool, you know, Inspector, whatever else I may be! That nurse being out, the old man would have opened the door himself.”

  “Might have done so,” corrected Woods. “There are other possibilities.”

  Fordham stared. “Do you mean that the man might have been hidden in the flat before the nurse went out?”

  Woods, however, refused to say what was in his mind. “We needn’t discuss that now, sir. What I want you to give me, if you can, is a list of Mr. Ewing’s friends—as far as you can give me one. Was he, for example, in the habit of having people come to see his collection? Other people interested in it, I mean, collectors, dealers, and so on?”

  George shook his head. “No. He was a sour old fellow, and didn’t fraternize with other old birds. He was too jealous. Didn’t like people to know what he’d got, and didn’t want to hear them boast about what they’d got.”

  “But you took people up there to see the jade—so I understand?”

  For a moment George looked nonplussed.

  “Took people up?”

  “Yes. Mr. Godfrey told me you took him up on one occasion.”

  “Yes, I did. And that was about the one and only time! Godfrey’s a friend of mine, so, of course, that was enough to put the old man off. Said he didn’t want to be brought into contact with his neighbours either—Godfrey is Mrs. Dutton’s nephew, you know. So I never took anyone else.”

  “What about the people he bought his things from?”

  “Don’t know anything about that. I know he always dealt with one special firm, who bought for him. I imagine his lawyer, or his banker, knows. I didn’t really take any interest myself in the collection or anything to do with it. A damned waste of money, I always thought it!”

  “Well,” said Woods patiently, “then you really can’t tell me anything more on that point?”

  A defiant nod from George.

  “Then, sir, we come to the next point. You realize, of course, I must ask you where you yourself were, yesterday evening, between the hours of four and six? A matter of routine we must go through.”

  Fordham grinned maliciously. “Shall it be a too perfect alibi, Inspector, or will you do without one?”

  Woods making no answer to this sally, he went on: “Well, I haven’t got an alibi at all. I was at my office—141B Great Queen Street—until a quarter-past five o’clock. Then, as usual, I came home, travelling by tube. It was, as you know, the rush hour. I didn’t see anyone I knew on my way back. I got home at about 5.45. I didn’t go into my own flat, for I met the man from the next door flat as I was going up the stairs—we don’t rise to a lift in our buildings. He asked me to go in and have a smoke and a drink, so I did. I stayed in there talking to him, and so I never heard the telephone going in our own flat. My wife had been rung up from the Dutton’s, and she had heard all about the murder, but she didn’t know I was in next door, and didn’t know how to get hold of me. I went back in to our place about seven, expecting a meal then. Didn’t get one though. She was all done in by the news of the affair, and in the end I had to take her out and get a meal at the nearest place before I went off to my uncle’s flat.”

  “This friend can, of course, corroborate your story?”

  “Of course.” Again that insolent grin.

  “Had your wife been in all the evening?”

  “As far as I know. She was there, anyway, when Henry Godfrey rang up at about half-past six. She answered the phone, and says he didn’t want to tell her, at first, what was wrong. She got the wind up—she knew from the way he spoke there was something up—and thought it might have been an accident to me, as I wasn’t back. So he had to tell her. She was in a frightful state about it. Tender-hearted, you know. More so than I am!”

  He stopped, and surveyed Woods with a truculent air.

  “Who have you at your office?” inquired Woods, calmly. “Have you anyone who can confirm your statement that you left at five o’clock?”

  “No, no one. I’m a free-lance, inspector—work on my own. I’ve an agency for a floor-covering, and I get an office and my expenses out of it—precious little else. I don’t run to a staff—or even an office boy.”

  “Is there a porter, or commissionaire, at your office buildings?”

  “Oh yes; there’s a fellow who works the lift, but he wasn’t about—often isn’t—and I worked it myself.”

  A brief silence. Fordham’s expression hardened. “You know as well as I do, Inspector, a man can’t prove his whereabouts at a moment’s notice. I’ll inquire amongst my friends, and see if any of them noticed me on my way home. But I didn’t notice them, and I don’t suppose I’ll have any luck. I’ve had rotten luck all my life,” he went on, with a spurt of resentment, “and it’s going to stay rotten, I should say. My old uncle dies, and I hope I’m going to be comfortably provided for, but of course that’s to be complicated by an alibi, and the hell of a lot of trouble.”

  “I’m sorry, of course, sir,” said Woods, more stiffly than ever; “but at the same time, I clearly must ask you to obtain corroboration of your statement. As to any progress we make in our investigation, of course you’ll be kept informed.”

  Fordham, who, if he regretted the bad impression he had obviously made, showed no signs of repentance, rose to go, with a very lowering face.

  “Well, I’ll do what I can, but it’s for you, you know, to make a case, not for me to disprove it!” and with that last glint of bravado he went.

  Woods spoke down the telephone. “That you, Curtis? Set on foot inquiries into Mr. George Fordham’s occupation. He tells me he’s an agent for floorcloth. Address, 141B Great Queen Street. Find out everything you can about his finances, and about his friends, and, of course, anything about his movements yesterday. Right.”

  Putting down the receiver, he meditated a moment. He had been definitely antagonized by Fordham. “That man’s a wrong un,” he thought to himself. “Heartless as they’re made; not a word of pity for that poor old uncle, not a mention of the circumstances. Sneering at his wife for showing a little feeling. Only thinking of himself, and any possible disadvantages to his position. I don’t like him. And we’ll keep a strict eye upon him. Wonder what sort of a wife he’s got?”

  With the reflection that she too might be interviewed, and realizing he had a heavy day before him, Woods dismissed his musings, and turned to the first name on his list.

  “‘Beatrice Edwards.’ Well, now, she ought to be important. She might have something to tell if she’s calmed down at all by now.” And eager to obtain any glimpses of light that might be shed on the events of the preceding night, he put on his hat and, going out of the station, bade the police car, which was waiting for him, drive to the address at which the nurse was to be found.

  Poor Nurse Edwards, sitting up in bed to receive her official visitor, looked more worn and haggard by daylight than she had done the night before. The hours which had passed had only brought to her fuller realization of the fact that she had actually seen the murderer, might have stopped him, and had failed to do so.

 

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