Complete works of peter.., p.450
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 450
Bitterly stopped speaking. He was still watching Charles. Charles shifted in his chair uneasily.
"Well, what about it?" he said. "Supposing he was? What the devil's it got to do with me?"
Bitterly grinned.
"I don't know," he said. "That remains to be seen. You see, Charles, the position is really a little bit unfortunate. Naturally, directly the story of this death broke we investigated it. That's our business. It wasn't long before my crime reporter, Jacquot, discovered who the man was. By a coincidence I talked to Diane about it. I thought there was just a chance that she might know something about it, you know, living in the neighbourhood. Then I discovered, if you please, that this man Lariat had called on her the Monday before and threatened her. In fact, she told me a certain amount of the Ceylon story.
"Then I began to get concerned, Charles. I began to be concerned for you," Bitterly continued hypocritically. "I realised that there were features about this death which made it look like—" he paused.
"Like what?" Charles asked quickly.
"Like murder," said Bitterly. "I didn't like that idea at all, because, you see, there was a chance that Diane, and all of you, for that matter, might get mixed up in this thing.
"The point is, Charles, that the inquest is to be held, as you probably know, next Tuesday morning, and I find my own position is a very, very difficult one."
Charles turned round again in his chair.
"What's all this got to do with me?" he asked. "How does it concern me?"
Bitterly smiled.
"Oh, it does, Charles," he said pleasantly. "It definitely concerns you. You see, the point is this, Charles. Apparently Diane has a motive for wanting Lariat out of the way, because Lariat came to her and threatened her, or tried to blackmail her, or something. I don't know much about that. She was very vague about it all," lied Bitterly. "Then, again, I was rather astounded to find that Herbert might have a motive for wanting Lariat out of the way, because, you see, after leaving Diane, Lariat went on to Herbert's offices and apparently tried to blackmail him. Of course," said Bitterly, smiling cheerfully, "you may still ask what this has to do with you. But the point was, Charles, that, as both Diane and Herbert were annoyed with Lariat, you might be annoyed too. After all, I should think you've got more reason to be annoyed with Lariat than anybody else has. Wasn't he responsible for all that trouble twelve years ago? Wasn't it actually through him that you had to leave Ceylon? Why should he go to Derham Crescent, even if he were a cat burglar? Why should he select that place?"
Charles got up. He stood, with his back against the desk, looking at Bitterly. The sneer had gone from his face, and in its place was a look of definite hatred such as Bitterly had seldom seen. When at last he spoke his voice was rasping.
"Look here, Bitterly," he said, "I don't know what you're getting at, and I don't care, but I think it's a damned impertinence on your part to stick your nose in my business, to discuss my private affairs with my wife, or Herbert, or anybody else. I object to your coming here asking me a lot of questions. I like your damned cheek. You're all the same, you newspaper men; you couldn't behave like gentlemen if you tried."
Bitterly grinned. Charles' anger, which he considered to be more the anger of fear than that of a sense of injury, amused him.
"Dear me," he said. "What a pity you haven't got your old school tie on, Charles. I think that last speech of yours needed it. Now, supposing you and I get down to hard tacks, and I tell you exactly what I mean.
"I think, unless we're all very careful, we shall find that by to-morrow night you might easily be in a position where Diane is in some way implicated in this inquest. Now, I naturally believe that you don't want that to happen, therefore, my only business is to assure myself, as an ordinary decent citizen, that neither you nor any member of your family had anything to do with the death of Lariat."
Charles leaned forward with a look of extreme sarcasm on his face.
"Would it surprise you to know, since you know so much, Mr. Amateur Detective," he said, "that Lariat came to see me last Monday, too. Perhaps you consider that a motive for my having killed him?"
Bitterly covered his amazement by coolly lighting a fresh cigarette. By the time this process was finished he had got himself well in hand. He made up his mind to try a bluff.
"Why not, Charles?" he asked. "In point of fact, since you tell me that Lariat did call on you, I can only imagine that he called on you for the same reason that he called on your wife and brother-in-law."
Bitterly paused.
"So Lariat was blackmailing you too, was he, Charles?" he said, with a sarcastic smile. "Now we're getting warm, aren't we? And I suppose you were very annoyed with him. After all, you had good reason to be, you know. He made life pretty uncomfortable for you in Ceylon. By the way, Charles, I suppose you'd be indignant if I asked you just what you were doing last Friday night."
Charles grinned cynically.
"Not at all," he said. "Since we are all being such good citizens—every Friday night I drive a special customer of ours down to Beaconsfield—Bardon the commercial traveller. I was with him. That lets me out, in any event," said Charles.
"Sorry if you find you can't hang this thing on to me now—that is, supposing he was killed, which I very much doubt."
Bitterly changed his tactics. His one idea now was to get the story of what had happened between Lariat and Charles.
"Look here, Charles," he said, "don't be a fool and don't get annoyed. If you'd think quietly for a minute, instead of being all up-stage and county, you'd realise that I'm trying to be your friend. I'm trying to keep you and your family out of this business. Don't you see what anyone would think? This man, apparently, is threatening all of you. You were all afraid of him—"
"Don't you believe it," said Charles. "I wasn't; I never have been."
He sat down once more in his chair.
"Look here," he said, "since you say you are trying to be friendly, here's what happened as far as I'm concerned. Lariat came to see me here in this office last Monday afternoon. He didn't say a word about having seen Diane or Herbert. He came here and told me that he was down and out, that things had been very bad in Ceylon, and that he'd been told that there was a good chance of getting a decent job in England. He said he was penniless, and asked me to lend him a quid.
"I lent him nothing. I told him just what I thought about him; just what I thought of any man who made love to another man's wife, as he did to mine, even although she does deny it. I told him," said Charles, his voice rising, "that he could go to hell, and that one of these fine days he'd learn that the best thing to do in his life is to go straight. And," continued Charles, with satisfaction, "he listened. I told him that, if he stayed in this country and started trying to make more trouble for me, I'd go to the police, and they'd soon look after him. And I advised him that the best thing he could do would be to get out of England and go back to Ceylon. We didn't want people like him over here."
"I see," said Bitterly, sarcastically. "And he just stood there and listened to a lecture from you, did he, Charles? He just took that nicely and quietly?
"Do you mean to tell me, Charles, that you never saw Lariat again after that interview here in this garage office last Monday, because you will find it damned difficult to make other people believe that."
"Will I really?" said Charles. "Well, once again you're wrong, because I can prove that I never saw Lariat after that day."
"That's interesting," said Bitterly, "but, personally, I don't see how you can prove that. It's a long time between Monday afternoon and Friday night, yon know. How can you prove you didn't see him? Look here, Charles," said Bitterly, forcing a little kindness into his voice, only because he wanted to get this so-called proof out of Charles, "don't you realise, my dear fellow, that the thing for you to do is to keep yourself and your family out of this business. You know what the newspapers are. Of course, if you can prove that you didn't see Lariat again after Monday that makes it right for you, providing, of course, that people will accept proof."
Charles grinned. "They've got to accept it," he said. "They can't do anything else."
He felt in the breast pocket of his coat and produced a folded sheet of notepaper. With an air of triumph he opened it.
"Listen to this," he said. "Last Thursday night Lariat wrote me this letter. It's written from some place in Bone Street—some place where he was living."
Charles began to read.
"MY DEAR VALLERY,—
"I have been sitting and thinking about our conversation on Monday afternoon and I have come to the conclusion that you are right. I have certainly made a mess of my life and I know now that I have been a fool. I have done what you said. I have thought things over and I have seen with your own viewpoint that honesty is the best policy. I shall be leaving Fenchurch Street at 10.30 next Saturday morning for Ceylon.—
"Yours,
"VINCENT LARIAT".
"Well," said Charles with a smirk, "does that prove that I have never seen Lariat since Monday? Does that prove that what I said about his visit to me was true? Here, read it for yourself."
He threw the letter to Bitterly. Bitterly opened the folded notepaper and read it. His mind was racing, a thousand questions were flashing across his brain, but predominant was this one. Why should it have been necessary for Lariat to knock up his landlady to borrow the notepaper and envelope he needed to send this letter? Why was it necessary for him to go out after midnight to post it? There was nothing in this letter. It could have been written the next morning, for that matter. Why had Lariat taken all that trouble in order to send this very ordinary letter to Charles?
Bitterly read the letter again, imprinting the words on his mind. Then he handed it back to Charles.
"Well, Charles," he said, "that certainly lets you out."
Charles took the letter and put it back in his pocket.
"You know, Bitterly," he said more pleasantly, "I think you're making a mountain out of a molehill. Of course, I see your angle; all you writing people like to find a mystery when there isn't one. But I think that your ideas are wrong. I don't believe that anybody will connect this fellow with us. We don't know or care anything about what happened to him or what he was doing. You can take it from me that the police are right. He was a cat burglar and managed to kill himself in the process. Well," said Charles, "he won't be missed, that's a certainty."
Bitterly got up and buttoned up his raincoat.
"Perhaps you're right, Charles," he said. "Anyhow, I'm glad that I had this talk with you. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that I was prying into your private affairs, but I'm afraid quite a lot of a newspaperman's business consists of prying into other people's affairs. We get hardened to it, you know."
Charles laughed. It seemed to Bitterly that, now that he had said all that he had to say about Lariat and had produced the letter which—according to him—proved his complete absence of motive as regards Lariat's death, Charles was quite happy. He gave the journalist another dilapidated cigarette.
"Oh, that's all right, Bitterly," he said. "Forget it."
Bitterly said "Good-night" and left the garage office. On the other side of the garage yard he turned and looked back at the lighted window, behind which Charles' figure was once more seated at the desk. Charles was smiling as he bent over his papers. Bitterly pulled his hat over his eyes and turned away.
CHAPTER XIV Sunday, November 12, 11.30 p.m.
BACK once more in his rooms, Bitterly lit his pipe and settled down in an armchair in front of the fire.He was amazed at the trend of events, but, after all, there had been so many amazements and surprises since the morning before, when Jacquot had telephoned and started all this strange business. It was remarkable, he thought, that so many things could happen in so short a time. Since the discovery of Lariat's body he had found himself dealing with the possibilities of people, whom he knew more or less intimately, being concerned with a murder—a murder, which was, in effect, as sordid as any that had ever come into his knowledge.
Conning over the interviews which he had had with Diane, Herbert, Bardella and, now, last of all, Charles, he smiled to himself as he realised how this thing had changed in his mind since the morning before. He was certain of one thing, Charles was lying. It seemed to Bitterly quite improbable that Lariat should have gone to Charles in an attempt to borrow money from a man who, at least, thought that he had been wronged by the would-be borrower.
It was quite obvious that Charles had seen and spoken to Lariat, but the thing which was predominant in the journalist's mind, the question that he desired to answer most, was why had it been necessary for Lariat to write that relatively unimportant letter to Charles and to take such trouble to see that it was dispatched by a certain time? Obviously, Bitterly considered, it was necessary, for some unknown reason, for Charles to receive that letter as early as possible on Friday. That, and only that, could have been the reason for Lariat's insisting on posting it on the Thursday night before going to bed, although he had been informed that there was no postal collection until seven o'clock next morning.
It seemed to the news editor that Charles' story as to his meeting with Lariat on the Monday afternoon was false. Why should Lariat consider that Charles would agree to lend him money? Against this there was, of course, the possibility that Lariat, friendless, and refused any sort of assistance from Diane, and not really expecting any from Herbert—in spite of his threats—might, as a last resource, go to Charles in the hope that a show of penitence on his part would secure from him some small financial assistance. Bitterly thought that this was just possible.
After all, Charles would rather like the idea of being the wronged man who had returned good for evil! Yet, according to Charles, this little scheme had not come off, and Lariat had been sent about his business. But, if this were so, why was it necessary for Lariat to write that cryptic letter to Charles? Once more the letter seemed to stand out as a salient point in the welter of apparent lies surrounding the death of Lariat. Again, Bitterly found himself rather in a maze after hearing the stories of Diane, Herbert, Bardella and Charles, and after analysing in his mind their replies to his carefully thought out questions, he considered that the salient points in the mystery of Lariat's death might be elucidated if these questions could be answered. He took a piece of paper and a pencil and wrote them down.
(1) What was the explanation of the discrepancy between Herbert's story and Diane's story with regard to the cat?
(2) Why had it been necessary for Bardella to draw £100 from the bank on the previous Monday?
(3) From whom had Lariat obtained at least one of the Bardella banknotes?
(4) From whom had Charles obtained another of these banknotes, the one which he had given to Herbert as part of his winnings?
(5) For what reason had Lariat gone to see Charles on the Monday before, after visiting and threatening both Diane and Herbert?
(6) Why had Lariat gone to Derham Crescent on Friday night? Was this at the invitation of any of the parties concerned? If not, what reason would he have had for going there? Obviously the cat burglar theory was rubbish.
(7) If the idea which had at one time seemed possible, that Diane and Herbert had concocted a joint story about the happenings on Friday night, were a fact, which one was trying to protect the other? Or, had they both been concerned in some way with the death of Lariat?
(8) Was Bardella actually connected with the mystery or was her connection with it merely an accidental one owing to the fact that she had given somebody some money, part of which had, eventually, got into Lariat's hands?
(9) If Charles were lying, why?
(10) Once again, why had it been necessary for Lariat to take such pains to write and dispatch that unimportant letter so that Charles received it as early as possible on Friday?
It was this last point which stood out predominantly in Bitterly's mind as being something most important to the solution of the mystery. For some reason or other this letter, which Charles had produced so blithely, seemed to Bitterly to constitute one of the most important factors, if not the most important factor, in the case.
Now he thought of Bardella. Bitterly rather imagined that he had Bardella in a corner. He remembered her bad temper when he had seen her early that morning.
Bardella then, at least, according to her own way of thinking, had been mistress of the situation, but Bitterly thought now that the tables might be turned. Now he was in a position where, if he wanted, he could definitely inform Bardella that he knew where at least two of her banknotes had gone, this young lady might be inclined to come off her high horse and be more frank about the disposal of her £100.
And why not ask? The idea intrigued him. He walked over to his desk, took up the telephone receiver, and asked Directory Inquiry for Bardella's telephone number. There was a chance, of course, that she might not be on the telephone, but, after a moment, he was pleased to hear her rather high-pitched voice asking who the caller was.
"Hello, Bardella," he said. "This is Michael Bitterly. I'm sorry to trouble you at this time of night, and I'm very glad to have found you in, but I wanted to apologise"—he grinned to himself—"for my seeming rudeness this morning and to tell you that I discovered some information which might interest you."
Bardella's voice was suspicious.
"Oh, really," she said shortly. "It must be very important for you to ring at this time of night. I was in bed. I hope you've not rung up with some more impertinent questions. I don't want to make myself unpleasant, you know!"
Bitterly laughed.
"That's as may be, Bardella," he said. "Of course, I realised this morning what you were getting at. You mean that, having overheard the quarrel between Lariat and Diane, you might inform the police of that fact and they might be inclined to make inquiries, possibly implicating her, into this business. But I've an idea that you won't do that, Bardella—not that I care—Diane's business has nothing to do with me," he continued airily, "but I don't think that you'll feel inclined to discuss this matter with anyone, Bardella. Your own position isn't quite so secure, you know...."
