The offices of Carrington, Radclyffe & Carrington were on the first floor of a house at the bottom of Adam Street, facing down the length of Adelphi Terrace. The head of the firm occupied a large, untidy room overlooking the river through a gap in the adjacent buildings. When tiles ushered Hannasyde into this apartment on Monday morning, the head of the firm was seated at an enormous desk, completely covered with papers, muttering fiercely at the shortcomings of his fountain pen. The head of the firm was a well-preserved sixty, with grizzled and scanty hair, a ruddy complexion, and the same humorous gleam which lurked in his son's eyes. In other respects father and son were not much alike. Giles was tall and lean, and never seemed to be in a hurry; Charles Carrington was short, and of a comfortable habit of body and lived in a perpetual state of bustle. It was a source of surprise to those not intimately acquainted with him that he should be a lawyer. Those who knew him best were not dismayed by his odd mannerisms, or his inability to find anything. They knew that although he might convey the impression of being a fussy and rather incompetent old gentleman, he had still, at sixty, a remarkably acute intellect.
He looked up when the door opened, and, as soon as he saw his son, held up an ink-stained hand, and barked: “You see. What did I tell you? They always leak. What on earth should put it into your mother's head to give me one of the infernal things when she knows perfectly well I never could stand them, and never shall - Look at this! Take the confounded thing away! Throw it out of the window - Give it to the office boy! And you needn't tell your mother I'm not using it!”
“All right, I won't,” said Giles, removing the pen. “This is Superintendent Hannasyde from Scotland Yard.”
“Oh, is it?” said Mr Carrington, carefully wiping his fingers with a piece of pink blotting-paper. “Good-morning. Investigating my nephew's murder, aren't you? Well, I wish you joy of it. Ill-conditioned young cub! Don't stand! Don't stand! Take a chair! Take a chair! Giles, push those deeds on to the floor, and let the Superintendent sit down.”
He began to hunt amongst the dusty heap of documents on his desk, remarking that in this office you had only to lay a thing down for a minute for it to disappear completely. The Superintendent, surveying the general disorder with an awed gaze, made a sympathetic murmur, and wondered whether there was the least hope of discovering Arnold Vereker's letter in the welter on the desk.
But Mr Carrington, having thrown one bundle of papers at his son, with the Delphic utterances "Section 35 of the Act; they'd better settle it out of court;" and dropped two used envelopes vaguely in the direction of the waste-paper basket, pounced upon a sheet of closely written notepaper, and scowled at it, rubbing the tip of his nose with his forefinger. “This is it,” he announced. “You'd better have it, Superintendent. May mean nothing; may mean a lot. Here, Giles, you take a look at it! What did the fellow think I could tell him that he didn't know already? Arnold all over! Wasting my time with his rubbishy questions! But I don't like to hear this about Tony; what's the wretched child about to get herself entangled with this young waster? Read it!” .
By this time Giles was doing so. When he came to the end, he held it out to Hannasyde, saying: “I think this comes rather pat, don't you?”
The letter was on office paper, but written by hand, and by a man in a raging temper. “Dear Uncle,” it began, and continued abruptly: “What is the legal position of this firm in the case of systematic tampering with the accounts on the part of an employee? I've caught this damned whipper-snapper Mesurier out, and I want to prosecute, but wish to know how I stand before taking definite action. I have had him up and he has the insolence to expect me to condone it because, f you please, he is paying back what he calls the "loan" in his own good time! Does this prejudice my case, or not? Major portion of the sum stolen is still owing. Surely I have a case? Don't reply with any sentimental drivel; the skunk has got himself engaged to that damned little fool, Antonia, and I want him exposed. Kindly give this matter your immediate attention, and advise.”
The Superintendent read this through with his usual deliberation. “Yes, it does come pat,” he said. “You're quite right. A bit hard on this chap Mesurier, wasn't he?
Mr Carrington, who was once more hunting through the litter on his desk, temporarily abandoned his new search and swung his chair round so that he faced Hannasyde. “Hard? Infernally vindictive, sir, that's what my nephew Arnold is - was.” he paused, and added with a growl: “De mortuis nil nisi bonum,” as a sort of general absolution. “But I never in my life met a fellow with a worse heart, or a worse temper, or worse manners, or more obstinate, pig-headed -”
“He wasn't as bad as all that, sir,” objected Giles.
“Don't interrupt,” said Mr Carrington sternly. He transferred his attention to Hannasyde “You can keep that letter. You look a sensible man, as far as I can judge. I've no desire to get this Mesurier fellow into trouble, but I've still less desire to see you Yard men barking up what I trust is the wrong tree. I'm not acting for that benighted young nephew of mine - though why I call him my nephew I don't know, he isn't - and thank thank God for it! But from what I know of him - Yes , what is it?”
A clerk had tapped at the door, and entered. He said in a low voice. “For Mr Giles , Sir.”
“Well?” said Giles, turning his head. “Anything urgent?”
“Mr Kenneth Vereker has called, sir, and would be glad if you could spare him a few minutes. He says it is urgent.”
“Tell him I'm engaged at the moment, but if he cares to wait. I'll see him later.”
Hannasyde craned forward. “I wonder if you would mind if I saw Mr Kenneth Vereker?” he asked Giles and his father's eyes met for an instant.
Charles Carrington said briefly “Tell Mr Vereker that Superintendent Hannasyde is here and would like to see him.”
“Yes sir.” The clerk went out.
Two minutes later Kenneth walked in, dressed in disreputable grey flannel trousers, a shirt with a soft collar and a flowing tie, and an old tweed coat. A plume of dark hair fell over one eyebrow and the eyes themselves were bright, and inquisitive, and alert. “Hullo, Uncle! Hullo, Giles!” he said airily. “Where's the lamb-like policeman? Good Lord, I don't see anything lamb-like about you! Another of Tony's lies! I've come to the conclusion I'd better reserve my defence, by the way. Saw it in the News of the World yesterday, and it seemed to me a good idea.”
“I wish,” said Mr Carrington testily, “that you would refrain from walking into my office looking like a third rate artist from Chelsea!”
“Why?” asked Kenneth, interested.
“Because I don't like it!” replied Mr Carrington, floored. “And nor do I like that effeminate tie!”
“If it comes to that I don't like yours,” said Kenneth. “I think it's a ghastly tie, but I shouldn't have said so if you hadn't started on mine, because I believe in the Rights of the Individual. But as a matter of fact it's about my clothes that I'm here, more or less.” He turned to Hannasyde and said affably: “You don't mind if I get my business done first, do you?”
“Not at all,” answered Hannasyde, on whom, for all his apparently disinterested attitude, not one gesture or inflexion of the voice had been lost. “If you would like to speak to Mr Carrington alone, I can wait outside.”
“Oh, lord, no! It isn't private!” Kenneth assured him. “It's only about Arnold's money. I am the heir, aren't I, Giles? Damn it, I must be! He can't have upset Father's Will. Well, can I have some of it in advance? I must have some new shirts, for one thing, and I can't get them on tick since Arnold said he wouldn't be responsible for my debts, blast him! Also, Maxton's have sent me a stinker to say if I don't settle their account they will have to take steps. And if taking steps means jug, I can't possibly be jugged for at least another fortnight, because I'm working on a picture. So do you mind coughing up some of the needful?”
It was quite impossible to stem this tide of disastrous eloquence. After one quick, warning frown, Giles abandoned his attempt, and heard his client out in silence. Mr Charles Carrington, his elbows on the arms of his chair, and his fingertips lightly touching, sat watching the Superintendent, quite unperturbed. When his nephew paused for breath, he turned his head, and said with something of his son's mildness: “How much do you want, Kenneth?”
“I want five hundred pounds,” replied Kenneth promptly. “Three hundred is absolutely urgent, and if it won't run to five, I could make three do. But I want a hundred to buy a ring with, and another hundred for splurging about. I can buy a ring for a hundred, can't I, Giles?”
“Several, I should think,” replied Giles.
“Must be diamonds,” explained Kenneth. “Large, flashy ones. You know: the kind of thing which makes you want to vomit. It's for Violet. I haven't given her one yet, and that's the deluded wench's taste. I wouldn't put it above her to hanker after a ruby tiara once I touch Arnold's millions, bless her vulgar little heart!”
Giles intervened. “We'll talk it over later. I can lend you some money to tide you over. Is that all you came about?”
“That's enough, isn't it?” said Kenneth. “Murgatroyd's got it into her head that the bailiffs will storm the place at any moment. I can't see what on earth it matters as long as they don't get in our way, but she won't listen to reason, and, as a matter of fact, I daresay they would be a bit of a nuisance. Because we've only got one sittingroom, you know.”
“All right, I'll come along this evening and arrange something,” promised Giles. “Meanwhile Superintendent Hannasyde wants to ask you some questions.”
“I just want to know what your movements were on Saturday evening,” said Hannasyde pleasantly.
“I know you do, but according to Giles you won't believe a word of my story,” replied Kenneth. “My point is that you can't disprove it. If you've got any sense you won't try. You'll simply arrest my sister, and be done with it. I call her behaviour fishy in the extreme. Moreover, any girl who gets engaged to a human wen like Mesurier deserves to be hanged. What did you make of him, Giles?”
“I hardly know him. Try to stick to the point.”
“Well, I think he's a blister,” said Kenneth frankly. Hannasyde said patiently: “May I hear this story which I can't disprove.”
“Sorry, I'd forgotten you for the moment,” said Kenneth, and seating himself on a corner of the desk which happened to be free from litter, related with unexpected conciseness the history of his movements on Saturday. “And that's that,” he concluded, delving in his pocket for an evil-looking meerschaum. “My fiancée says it's such a rotten story you're bound to believe it. She ought to know. She reads about seven detective thrillers a week, so she's pretty well up on crime.”
Hannasyde looked at him rather searchingly. “You don't remember the picture-theatre you visited or even what street it is in, or what the the film was about, Mr Vereker?”
“No,” said Kenneth, unrolling an oilskin tobacco pouch, and beginning, under his uncle's fermenting stare, to fill the meerschaum.
“That argues a singularly bad memory, doesn't it?”
“Vile,” agreed Kenneth. “But anyone'll tell you I've no memory.”
“I'm surprised that with such a memory you are able to tell me so exactly what you did that evening,” said Hannasyde gently.
“Oh, I learned that off by heart,” replied Kenneth, putting his pipe in his mouth, and restoring the pouch to his pocket.
Superintendent Hannasyde was not a man to show surprise readily, but this ingenuous explanation bereft him momentarily of speech. Giles's slow voice filled the gap: “Don't try to be funny, I implore you. What do you mean?”
Charles Carrington, whose attention had been successfully switched from the meerschaum, watched Kenneth with an air of impersonal interest. “Yes, what do you mean?” he inquired.
“Just what I said,” responded Kenneth, striking a match. Between puffs, he continued, “After Giles had gone, last night, it dawned I me that I'd better make sure I didn't forget what I did on Saturday. So I wrote it all down, and learned it by heart in case I lost the book of words.”
The Superintendent, recovering, put rather a stern question: “Do you remember anything at all of what you did, Mr Vereker, or are you merely favouring me with a recitation?”
“Of course I remember,” said Kenneth impatiently. “You can't go on repeating a saga without remembering it. If you mean, Did I make it up? Certainly not! I should have thought out a much better story than that. Something really classy. As a matter of fact, my sister and I concocted a beauty, but we decided against using it, because of the mental strain. If you make a thing up you keep forgetting some of the ramifications, and then you're in the soup.”
“I'm glad you realise that,” said Hannasyde dryly. “Will your memory go back as far as the third of June?”
“What's today? asked Kenneth, willing to oblige, but cautious.
“Today, Mr Vereker, is the nineteenth of June.”
“Then I shouldn't think it would. It all depends. Not if you're going to ask me what I had for breakfast that day, or whether I went out for a walk, or-”
“I am going to ask you whether you remember writing a letter to your half-brother, requesting him to give or lend you five hundred pounds.”
“Did I write that on the third?”
“You remember writing the letter, even though you may not remember the date?”
“You bet I do,” said Kenneth. “I've been kicking myself for having done it ever since I heard about the murder. Didn't I tell you the swine would keep my letter, Giles?”
“Do you also remember a second letter which you wrote your half-brother - presumably on receipt of his refusal to send you any money?”
Kenneth frowned. “No, I'm afraid I don't. Did I write a second time?”
The Superintendent opened his pocket-book and took out a single sheet of notepaper. “Isn't that it, Mr Vereker?”
Kenneth leaned forward to read it, and burst out laughing. “Oh lord, yes! Sorry! I'd forgotten that for the moment.”
“You were angry enough to write a letter telling your half-brother that it would give you great pleasure to wring his neck -”
“Bloody neck,” corrected Kenneth.
“Yes, his bloody neck is the term you used. You felt that strongly enough to write it, and then forgot all about it?”
“No, I forgot I'd written it,” said Kenneth. “I didn't forget that I wanted to wring his neck. My memory's not as bad as that.”
“I see. Am I to understand that this violent desire persisted?”
Giles made a slight movement of protest, but Kenneth spoke before he could be stopped. “More or less, whenever I happened to think about him. But it was only a beautiful dream. I couldn't have pulled it off. Arnold was too beefy for me to tackle single-handed.”
There was an infinitesimal pause. Then the Superintendent said: “I see. I think you said you are engaged to be married?” Kenneth nodded. “Have you been engaged long, Mr Vereker?”
“Three months, more or less.”
“When do you mean to be married, if I may ask?”
“I think you mayn't, Superintendent,” said Giles, shifting his shoulders against the mantelpiece.
“You must advise your client as you see fit, Mr Carrington, but it is a question that will be asked,” Hannasyde said.
“Let him ask me anything he likes,” said Kenneth. vI don't mind. I haven't got any feeling against the police. I don't know when I'm going to be married. My betrothed has religious scruples.”
“Has what?” asked Hannasyde, startled.
Kenneth waved his pipe vaguely in the air. “Religious scruples. Respect due to the dead. All against the funeral baked-meats coldly furnishing forth the marriage tables. Romeo and Juliet,” he added.
“Hamlet,” said the Superintendent coldly. “Shakespeare, anyway.”
“Do you mean that your fiancée wishes to postpone the wedding until you're out of mourning?”
“She can't. She knows perfectly well I'm not going into mourning.”
“Mr Vereker, had you arranged a date for your wedding before Saturday, or not?”
“Not.”
“I'm going to ask a very straightforward question, which your solicitor wont like.” said Hannasyde with a faint smile. “Was the wedding day unsettled because of money troubles?”
“You needn't bother about my solicitor.” said Kenneth amiably. “When a thing stands out a mile, you don't catch me queering my pitch by denying it. Money it was. The lady's not in favour of a two-pair back. By the way, that was something I wanted to ask you, Giles. What is a two-pair back?”
“I don't know,” said Giles.
“Well, it doesn't really matter,” said Kenneth, banishing the question. “Now Arnold's dead the point doesn't arise.”
“No,” agreed Giles, with intent. “Whatever a two-pair back may be it isn't anything like the Eaton Place house.”
Kenneth took his pipe out of his mouth. “Let's get this straight!” he requested. “Nothing would make me live in that high-class mansion, or any other remotely resembling it! That's final, and you may tell Violet so with my loving compliments.”
“All right. Where do you propose to live?”
“Where I'm living now. If Violet wants ropes of pearls, and a brocade bed, and a Rolls-Royce, she can have 'em, but there it ends. I utterly refuse to alter my habits.” He stood up, and pushed the lock of hair back from his forehead. “You can also tell her,” he said, his eyes very bright all at once, “that these hands” - he flung them out, the fingers spread wide - “are worth more than all Arnold's filthy money, and when he's been forgotten for centuries people will still be talking about me!”
Charles Carrington blinked, and looked to see how Hannasyde received this sudden outburst. Hannasyde was watching Kenneth. He said nothing. Kenneth's brilliant, challenging eyes came to rest on his impassive face. “That's what you don't yet grasp!” hr said. “I might have killed Arnold because I loathed him, and his money-grubbing mind, and his vulgar tastes, but not for his two hundred and fifty thousand pounds!”
“Don't you want his two hundred and fifty thousand pounds?” asked Hannasyde conversationally.
“Don't ask me dam' silly questions,” snapped Kenneth, “Of course I do! Who wouldn't?”
Hannasyde got up. “No one of my acquaintance,” he answered. “I've no more questions to ask you at the moment, dam' silly or otherwise.”
“Good,” said Kenneth. “Then I'll depart. Don't forget to come round tonight Giles. And mind the wolf! According to Murgatroyd it's at the door. Good-bye, Uncle. Give my love to Aunt Janet.”
“I must be going too,” said Hannasyde, as the door shut behind Kenneth. “I may act as I think fit with regard to this letter, Mr Carrington?”
Charles Carrington nodded. “Use your discretion, Superintendent. I expect you've got a lot, hey?”
Hannasyde smiled. “I hope so,” he said. He turned to Giles. “I shall see you tomorrow at the Inquest, shan't I?”
Giles held out his hand. “Yes, I shall be there.”
Hannasyde gripped the hand for a moment, a certain friendly warmth in his eyes. “I'll let you know if anything interesting transpires.”
He went out, and Charles Carrington pushed back his chair from the desk. “Well, well, well!” he said. “Sheer waste of my time, of course, but not unamusing.”
“I've half a mind to ask Kenneth to look for another solicitor,” said Giles ruefully.
His father sat up, and resumed his search amongst the papers on his desk. “Nonsense!” he said briskly. “That boy is either an incorrigibly truthful young ass, or a brilliantly clever actor. He's got your Superintendent Hannasyde guessing, Giles. What's more, he's got you guessing as well. You don't know whether he did it or not.”
“No, I don't. I don't even know whether he'd be capable of doing it. He's a queer fish. Curiously coldblooded.”
“He's capable of it, all right. But whether he did it or not I can't make out. Where the devil are my spectacles?”