The Deputy-manager of the Shan Hills Mining Company, Mr Harold Fairfax, received Superintendent Hannasyde with anxious deference, and raised no objection at all to the Superintendent's request that he might be allowed to question certain members of the staff. Mr Fairfax was a spare little man of middle age, and seemed to be in a perpetual state of being worried. He could throw no light on the mystery of Arnold Vereker's death. “You see,” he said unhappily, “so many people disliked Mr Vereker. He was a hard man, oh, a very hard man! I - I believe he trusted me. I like to think he did. We never quarrelled. Sometimes he would be very short with me, but I have known him for a great many years, and I think I understood him. It is a dreadful thing, his murder; an appalling thing. And all, perhaps, because someone couldn't make allowances for his temper!”
Miss Miller, Arnold Vereker's secretary, was more helpful. She was a businesslike-looking woman, of an age hard to determine. She fixed her cold, competent eyes on the Superintendent, and answered his questions with a composure tinged with contempt. She told him the exact hour of Arnold Vereker's arrival at the office on Saturday morning; she recited a list of the engagements he had had, and described his callers. “At five-and-twenty minutes past ten,” she said briskly, “Mr Vereker sent for Mr Mesurier, who remained in his room for twenty-seven minutes.”
“You are very exact, Miss Miller,” said the Superintendent politely.
She smiled with tolerant superiority. “Certainly. I pride myself on being efficient. Mr Mesurier was sent for immediately after the departure of Sir Henry Watson, whose appointment, as I have informed you, was at ten o'clock. Mr Cedric Johnson, of Messrs Johnson, Hayes & Heverside, had an appointment with Mr Vereker at eleven, and arrived seven minutes early. I informed Mr Vereker at once, through the medium of the house telephone, and Mr Mesurier then came out, and, I presume, returned to his own office.”
“Thank you,” said the Superintendent. “Can you tell me if there was any unpleasantness during any of Mr Vereker's appointments that morning?”
“Yes; Mr Vereker's interview with Mr Mesurier was, I imagine, extremely unpleasant.”
“Why do you imagine that, Miss Miller?”
She raised her brows. “The room which is my office communicates with the late Mr Vereker's. I could hardly fail to be aware of a quarrel taking place behind the intervening door.”
“Do you know what the quarrel was about?”
“If I did I should immediately have volunteered the information, which must necessarily be of importance. But it is not my custom either to listen at keyholes, or to waste my employer's time. During Mr Vereker's interview with Mr Mesurier, and his subsequent one with Mr Cedric Johnson, I occupied myself with Mr Vereker's correspondence, using the dictaphone and a typewriter. What was said, therefore, I did not hear, or wish to hear. From time to time both voices were raised to what I can only describe as shouting-pitch. More than that I am not prepared to say.”
He put one or two other questions to her, and then got rid of her, and asked to see Mr Rudolph Mesurier.
Mesurier came in five minutes later. He looked rather white, but greeted Hannasyde easily and cheerfully. “Superintendent Hannasyde, isn't it? Good-morning. You're investigating the cause of Arnold Vereker's death, I understand. Rather an awful thing, isn't it? I mean, stabbed like that, in the back. Anything I can tell you that might help you, I shall be only too glad to - only I'm afraid I can't tell you much.” He laughed apologetically, and sat down on one side of the bare mahogany table, carefully hitching up his beautifully creased trousers. Just what is it you want to know?” he asked.
“Well, I want to know several things, Mr Mesurier,” answered the Superintendent. “Can you remember where you were on Saturday evening between the hours of- let us say eleven o'clock and two o'clock?”
Mesurier wrinkled his brow. “Let me see now: Saturday! Oh yes, of course! I was at home, Redclyffe Gardens, Earl's Court. I have digs there.”
“Are you sure that you were in home then, Mr Mesurier?”
“Well, really - !” Mesurier laughed again, a little nervously. “I was certainly under that impression! I had a bit of a head that night, and I went to bed early.”
Hannasyde looked at him for a few moments. Mesurier stared back into his eyes, and moistened his lips. “Where do you garage your car?” asked Hannasyde.
“What an odd question! Just round the corner. I have a lock-up garage, you know, in a mews.”
“Are you always careful to keep that garage locked, Mr Mesurier?”
Mesurier replied a shade too quickly. “Oh, I'm afraid I'm rather casual sometimes! Of course I do usually see that it's locked, but occasionally, when I've been in a hurry - you know how it is!”
“Did you use your car at all on Saturday?”
“No, I don't think I - Oh yes, I did, though!”
“At what time?”
“Well, I don't really remember. In the afternoon.”
“And when did you return it to the garage?”
Mesurier uncrossed his legs, and then crossed them again. “It must have been sometime during the early part of the evening. I'm afraid I'm a bit hazy about times. And of course, not knowing that it would be important - the time I garaged the car, I mean -”
“Are you sure, Mr Mesurier, that when you say the early part of the evening, you don't mean the early part of the morning?”
“I - I don't understand you. I've already told you I went to bed early. I don't quite follow what you're driving at. I mean, if you think I had anything to do with Arnold Vereker's death it's too utterly absurd.”
“The proprietor of the hour lock-up garages in the mews,” said Hannasyde, consulting his notes, “states that you took your car out at approximately five o'clock.”
“I daresay he's quite right. I certainly shan't dispute it. I told you it was during the afternoon. What I don't understand is why you should be so interested in my movements. Frightfully thorough of you, and all that, but I must say I find it rather amusing that you should actually take the trouble to question them at the garage!”
“The proprietor further states,” continued Hannasyde unemotionally, “that at one-forty-five a.m., on Sunday, he was awakened by the sound of one of the garages being opened. Apparently the garage you rent is immediately beneath his bedroom. He declares that he recognised the engine-note of the car being driven into the garage.”
“Of course that's perfectly preposterous!” Mesurier said. “In any case, it wasn't my car. Unless, of course, someone else had her out. If I forgot to lock the garage they might easily have done so, you know.”
“Who?” asked Hannasyde.
“Who?” Mesurier looked quickly across at him, and away again. “I'm sure I don't know! Anybody!”
“Whoever took your car out on Saturday evening must have had a key to the garage, Mr Mesurier. The proprietor states that when you had left the mews in the car shortly after five he himself shut the doors. When he went to bed at ten-thirty they were still locked.”
“I daresay he was mistaken. Not that I'm saying anyone did take my car out. It's much more likely that the car he heard at one-forty-five was someone else's. I mean, he was probably half-asleep, and anyway he could not recognise the engine-note as positively as that.”
“You will agree, then, that it is highly improbable that anyone should have taken your car out of the garage on Saturday night?”
“Well, I - it looks like it, certainly, but I don't know that no one did. I mean… Look here, I don't in the least see why you should bother so much about my car when I've told you -”
“I'm bothering about it, Mr Mesurier, because your car was seen by a Constable on patrol-duty, at a point known as Dimbury Corner, ten miles from Hanborough, on the London Road, at twenty-six minutes to one on Sunday morning,” said Hannasyde.
Again Mesurier moistened his lips, but for a moment or two he did not speak. The ticking of a solid-looking clock on the mantelpiece became Budding audible. Mesurier glanced at it, as though the measured sound got on his nerves, and said: “He must be mistaken, that's all I can say.”
“Is the number of your car AMG240?” asked Hannasyde.
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Then I don't think he was mistaken,” said Hannasyde.
“He must have been. He misread the number. Probably ANG, or - or AHG. In any case, I wasn't on the Hanborough Road at that hour.” He put up a hand to his head, and smoothed his sleek black hair. “If that's all the case you've got against me I mean, this Constable's memory against my word, I don't think much of it. Not that I wish to be offensive, you know. You detectives have to try everything, of course, but—”
“Quite so, Mr Mesurier.” The Superintendent's even voice effectually silenced Mesurier. “You are only being asked to account for your movements on Saturday night. If you were in your lodgings all evening you can no doubt produce a witness to corroborate the truth of that statement?”
“No, I don't think I can,” Mesurier said with an uneasy smile. “My landlady and her husband always go out on Saturday evening, so they wouldn't know whether I was in or out.” He became aware of a piece of cotton on his sleeve, and picked it off, and began to fidget with it.
“That is unfortunate,” said Hannasyde, and once more consulted his notes. He said abruptly: “You had an interview with Arnold Vereker at ten-thirty on Saturday morning. Is that correct?”
“Well, I wouldn't swear to the exact time, but I did see him on Saturday.”
“Was the interview an unpleasant one, Mr Mesurier?”
“Unpleasant? I don't quite -”
“Did a quarrel take place between you and Mr Vereker on that occasion?”
“Oh lord, no!” Mesurier cried. Vereker was a bit peeved that morning, but we did not quarrel. I mean, why should we?”
Hannasyde laid his notes down. “I think,” he said, “that we shall get along faster if I tell you at once, Mr Mesurier, that I am in possession of a certain letter concerning you which Mr Vereker wrote to the firm's solicitor on Saturday. You may read it, if you choose.”
Mesurier held out his hand for the letter, and said: “This - this isn't Vereker's writing.”
“No, it is mine,” said Hannasyde. “That is a copy of the original.”
Mesurier, a tinge of colour in his cheeks, read the letter, and put it down on the table. “I don't know what you expect me to say. It's an absolute misstatement—”
“Mr Mesurier, please understand me! The particular point raised in that letter does not concern me. I am not investigating the accounts of this company, but the murder of its chairman. The information contained in the letter tells me that your interview with Arnold Vereker on Saturday morning cannot have been a pleasant one. In addition, I have already ascertained that both your voices were heard raised in anger. Now -”
“That bloody cat, Rose Miller!” exclaimed Mesurier, flushing. “Of course, if you're going to believe what she says! She's always had her knife into me. It's a complete lie to say that we quarrelled. Vereker went for me, and I shan't attempt to deny that he was in a bad temper. In fact, he actually accused me of embezzling. Utterly ridiculous, I need hardly say. As a matter of fact I got into a bit of a mess - I borrowed a little from the firm, just to tide me over. Of course I know I oughtn't to have done it, but when you're hard pressed you do silly things. But to say I stole the money is - is positively laughable! I mean, if I'd wanted to do that I shouldn't be paying it back, which even Vereker admits I am doing. He simply had a down on me -”
“Because he had discovered that you had become engaged to his half-sister?”
“That had nothing to do with him at all!” Mesurier said quickly. “He didn't care a brass farthing about Tony.”
“He seemed to think it had a great deal to do with him,” said Hannasyde, a dry note in his voice. “He threatened you with exposure, didn't he?”
“Oh, he threatened me with all sorts of things!” said Mesurier. “I can't say I took him very seriously, though. I knew perfectly well he wouldn't prosecute when he'd had time to think it over. I mean, it would be too silly, on the face of it.”
“Would it?” said Hannasyde. “You will admit, I imagine, that if he had prosecuted you for - er - borrowing the firm's money, your career would have been ruined.”
“I don't know so much about that,” Mesurier said uneasily. “Of course, it would have been damned unpleasant, but -”
“I am speaking entirely in your interests, Mr Mesurier, when I say that the best thing you can do is to tell me the truth about your movements on Saturday night. Think it over.”
“I don't need to. You can't prove it was my car that the bobby thought he saw - and even if it was it certainly wasn't me driving it.” He got up. “That's absolutely all I have to say.”
“Then I won't keep you any longer,” said Hannasyde. “But I still advise you to think it over.”
By the time the Superintendent left the Shan Hills Mining Company's premises it was past four o'clock. Awaiting him in the main hall of the building was his subordinate, one Sergeant Hemingway, a cheerful person with a bright eye and a persuasive manner. They went out together to the nearest tea-shop, and, over cups of strong tea, compared notes.
“The trouble is,” remarked the Sergeant at length, “there's too many people with good motives. I never like that kind of case, Super. Do you remember the Ottershaw murder? Took ten years off my life, that did.” He prodded one of the buns which the waitress had set before them, and shook his head. “Not at my age,” he said. “You ought to be able to have 'em up for foisting that kind of food on the public. Keep me awake all night, that would. Take this young Vereker chap. He's a new one on me, Super. Make anything of him?”
“No,” said Hannasyde slowly. “Nothing at all yet. He's a new one on me too. I suspect, a mighty slippery customer.”
“He's got the biggest motive of the lot, I know that. Here, miss, you take these buns back where they came from, which was the dustbin, I should think, judging from the look of them, and bring me a nice plate of bread-and-butter, there's a good girl.”
“Sauce!” said the waitress, tossing her head.
The Sergeant winked at her, and turned back to Hannasyde. “Smart-looking girl, that. Well, now, I've got something for you. I went round to this studio, according to your instructions, and got talking to the skivvy there. Regular old cough-drop she is, too. Name of Murgatroyd. Used to be personal maid to the second Mrs Vereker before she was married, and after. Stopped on after Mrs Vereker died, and acted nurse to the kids. You get the layout, Super. She's the devoted family retainer all right. Well, I did what I could, jollying her along, but she was close as an oyster - Thank you, miss.” He waited until the waitress had removed herself out of earshot, and then continued: “Close as an oyster. Suspicious and wary. But one thing she did say and stuck to.”
“What was it?”
The Sergeant folded one the slices of bread-and butter in half, and put it into his mouth. When it was possible for him to speak intelligibly, he said: “She told me that whatever anyone might say to the contrary she was ready to get up and swear her Master Kenneth was safely tucked up in his bed and sleeping like a lamb at midnight on Saturday.”
“Did she really say that?” inquired Hannasyde, mildly curious.
“I won't swear to it those were her exact words,” replied the Sergeant, unabashed. “I may have made it a bit more poetic. But that was the gist of it. Now you tell me that the said Master Kenneth admits he was rampaging round town up till four o'clock. Bit of a departmental muddle, Super. Looks like they haven't got together enough over the question of alibis.”
“I don't make much of it,” said Hannasyde. 'It's obvious that young Vereker's position is very weak, and if this Murgatroyd is a devoted old servant, that's just the sort of gallant attempt to protect him you'd expect her to make.”
“I'm not saying it isn't, Super. I'll go so far as to say it is. But what I'll say is that the old girl's scared. She's afraid young Vereker did it. If she was plumb-sure he didn't she'd have bitten my head off for daring to come round suspecting her darling boy.”
Hannasyde put down his cup. “Look here, did she talk like that or not?”
“She did not,” said the Sergeant. “That's my point, Super. I figured she would.”
“Why?”
“Psychology,” said the Sergeant, vaguely waving his fourth slice of bread-and-butter in the air.
“Cut it out,” said his superior unkindly. “What did you find out about Vereker's chauffeur?”
“It wasn't him. You'll have to rule him out, Super. No good at all. I'll tell you what he was doing on Saturday.”
“You needn't bother. Put it in a report. I think I'll pay a call on Miss Vereker.”
The Sergeant cocked a wise eyebrow, “All on account of Light-fingered Rudolph? She gets a letter from Arnold, spilling the beans about him cooking the accounts, and threatening to ruin him, so down she goes to plead for Rudolph, and when that turns out to be no use, sticks a knife in the cruel half-brother. I haven't worked out how she got him in the stocks, but from what I can make out about these Verekers that's just the sort of joke they would pull, and think a proper scream. Myself, I haven't got that type of humour, but it takes all sorts to make a world. It's a wonder anyone ever gets out of these tea and bun bazaars, the trouble it is to get the girls to come across with the bill. I've been trying to catch Hennaed Hannah's eye for the past ten minutes. I know what my job is now, Super. I've got to check up on Friend Rudolph.” He looked shrewdly at his chief, for he had worked with him often before, and knew him. “Worried about Rudolph, aren't you, Super?”
“Yes, I am,” replied Hannasyde. “He fits, and yet he doesn't fit. See what you can find out, Hemingway.”
The Sergeant nodded. “I will that, sir. But he can't have done it. Not to my way of thinking. Here, Gladys - Maud - Gwendolyn, whatever your name is - tell me this: Are you standing us this tea?”
“I never did! You haven't half got a nerve!” said the waitress, giggling.
“I only asked because you seemed kind of shy of bringing the bill,” said the Sergeant.
“You are a one!” said the waitress, greatly diverted.