The Allingham Casebook Read online

  Mr Campion’s eyes grew puzzled. He knew Kenny for a conscientious officer, and, some said, a hard man. This philosophic strain was unlike him.

  “Taken a fancy to him?” he inquired.

  “Who? I certainly haven’t.” The Inspector was grim. “I’ve got no sympathy for youngsters who shoot up their relatives, however selfish the old besoms may be. No, he’s killed her, and he must take what’s coming to him, but it’s hard on – well, on some people. Me, for one.” He took out a large old-fashioned notebook and folded it carefully in half. “I stick to one of these,” he remarked virtuously, “none of your backs of envelopes for me. My record is kept as neatly as when I was first on the beat, and it can be handed across the court whenever a know-all counsel asks to see it.” He paused. “I sound like an advertisement, don’t I? Well, Mr Campion, since I’m here, just give your mind to this, if you will. I don’t suppose it’ll present any difficulty to you.”

  “One never knows,” murmured Mr Campion idiotically. “Start with the victim.”

  Kenny returned to his notebook.

  “Mrs Mary Alice Cibber, aged about seventy or maybe a bit less. She had heart trouble which made her look frail, and, of course, I didn’t see her until she was dead. She had a nice house in Barraclough Road, a good deal too big for her, left her by her husband who died ten years ago. Since then she’s been alone except for another old party who calls herself a companion. She looks older still, poor old girl, but you can see she’s been kept well under” – he put his thumb down expressively – “by Mrs C, who appears to have been a dictator in her small way. She was the sort of woman who lived for two chairs and a salad bowl.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Antiques.” He was mildly contemptuous. “The house is crammed with them, all three floors and the attic, everything kept as if it was brand new. The old companion says she loved it more than anything on earth. Of course, she hadn’t much else to love, not a relation in the world except the nephew —”

  “Whose future you see so clearly?”

  “The man who shot her,” the Inspector agreed. “He’s a big nervy lad, name of Woodruff, did very well in his army service. Short-term commission. Saw a lot of action in Cyprus – quite a bit of a hero – but got himself pretty badly injured when a bridge blew up with him on it – or something of the sort, my informant didn’t know exactly – and he seems to have become what the boys call ‘bomb happy’. It used to be shell shock in my day. As far as I can gather, he always has been quick tempered, but this sent him over the edge. He sounds to me as if he wasn’t sane for a while. That may help in his defence, of course.”

  “Yes.” Mr Campion sounded depressed. “Where’s he been since then?”

  “On a farm mostly. He was training to be an architect as a student, but the motherly old army knew what was best for him and when he came out of the hospital they bunged him down to Dorset. He’s just got away. Some home town chum got him a job in an architect’s office under the old pal’s act and he was all set to take it up.” He paused and his narrow mouth, which was not entirely insensitive, twisted bitterly. “Ought to have started Monday,” he said.

  “Oh, dear,” murmured Mr Campion inadequately. “Why did he shoot his aunt? Pure bad temper?”

  Kenny shook his head.

  “He had a reason. I mean one can see why he was angry. He hadn’t anywhere to live, you see. As you know London is crowded, and rents are fantastic. He and his wife are paying through the nose for a cupboard of a bed-sitting-room off the Edgeware Road.”

  “His wife?” The lean man in the horn-rims was interested. “Where did she come from? You’re keeping her very quiet.”

  To Campion’s surprise the Inspector did not speak at once. Instead he grunted, and there was regret, and surprise at it, in his little smile. “I believe I would if I could,” he said sincerely. “He found her on the farm. They’ve been married six weeks. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen love, Mr Campion? It’s very rare – the kind I mean.” He put out his hands deprecatingly. “It seems to crop up – when it does – among the most unexpected people, and when you do see it, well, it’s very impressive.” He succeeded in looking thoroughly ashamed of himself. “I shouldn’t call myself a sentimental man,” he said.

  “No.” Campion was reassuring. “You got his army history from her, I suppose?”

  “I had to, but we’re confirming it. He’s as shut as a watch – or a hand grenade. ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ and ‘I did not shoot her’ – that’s about all his contribution amounted to, and he’s had a few hours of expert treatment. The girl is quite different. She’s down there too. Won’t leave. We put her in the waiting-room finally. She’s not difficult – just sits there.”

  “Does she know anything about it?”

  “No.” Kenny was quite definite. “She’s nothing to look at,” he went on presently, as if he felt the point should be made. “She’s just an ordinary nice little country girl, a bit too thin and a bit too brown, natural hair and inexpert make-up, and yet with this – this blazing radiant steadfastness about her!” He checked himself. “Well, she’s fond of him,” he amended.

  “Believes he’s God?” Campion suggested.

  Kenny shook his head. “She doesn’t care if he isn’t,” he said sadly. “Well, Mr Campion, some weeks ago these two approached Mrs Cibber about letting them have a room or two at the top of the house. That must have been the girl’s idea; she’s just the type to have old-fashioned notions about blood being thicker than water. She made the boy write. The old lady ignored the question but asked them both to an evening meal last night. The invitation was sent a fortnight ago, as you can see there was no eager bless-you-my-children about it.”

  “Any reason for the delay?”

  “Only that she had to have notice if she was giving a party. The old companion explained that to me. There was the silver to get out and clean, and the best china to be washed, and so on. Oh, there was nothing simple and homely about that household!” He sounded personally affronted. “When they got there, of course, there was a blazing row.”

  “Hard words or flying crockery?”

  Kenny hesitated. “In a way, both,” he said slowly. “It seems to have been a funny sort of flare-up. I had two accounts of it – one from the girl and one from the companion. I think they are both trying to be truthful but they both seem to have been completely foxed by it. They both agree that Mrs Cibber began it. She waited until there were three oranges and a hundred weight of priceless early Worcester dessert service on the table, and then let fly. Her theme seems to have been the impudence of youth in casting its eyes on its inheritance before age was in its grave, and so on and so on. She then made it quite clear that they hadn’t a solitary hope of getting what they wanted and conveyed that she did not care if they slept in the street so long as her priceless furniture was safely housed. There’s no doubt about it that she was very aggravating and unfair.”

  “Unfair?”

  “Ungenerous. After all she knew the man quite well. He used to go and stay with her by himself when he was a little boy.” Kenny returned to his notes. “Woodruff then lost his temper in his own way which, if the exhibition he gave in the early hours of this morning is typical, is impressive. He goes white instead of red, says practically nothing, but looks as if he’s about to ‘incandesce’, if I make myself plain.”

  “Entirely.” Mr Campion was deeply interested. This new and human Kenny was an experience. “I take it he then fished out a gun and shot her?”

  “Lord, no! If he had, he’d have a chance at least of Broadmoor. No, he just got up and asked her if she had any of his things, because if so he’d take them and not inconvenience her with them any longer. It appears that when he was in the hospital some of his gear had been sent to her, as his next of kin. She said yes, she had, and it was waiting for him in the boot cupboard. The old companion, Miss Smith, was sent trotting out to fetch it and came staggering in with an old officer’s hold-all, burst at t
he sides and filthy. Mrs Cibber told her nephew to open it and see if she’d robbed him, and he did as he was told. Of course, one of the first things he saw among the shirts and old photographs was a revolver and a clip of ammunition.” He paused and shook his head. “Don’t ask me how it got there. You know what army hospitals are like. Mrs Cibber went on taunting the man in her own peculiar way, and he stood there examining the gun and presently loading it, almost absently. You can see the scene?”

  Campion could. The pleasant, perhaps slightly overcrowded room was vivid in his mind, and he saw the gentle light on the china and the proud, bitter face of the woman.

  “After that,” said Kenny, “the tale gets more peculiar, although both accounts agree. It was Mrs C who laughed and said, ‘I suppose you think I ought to be shot?’ Woodruff did not answer but he dropped the gun in his side pocket. Then he picked up the hold-all and said ‘Goodbye’.” He hesitated. “Both statements say that he then said something about the sun having gone down. I don’t know what that meant, or if both women mistook him. Anyway, there’s nothing to it. He had no explanation to offer. Says he doesn’t remember saying it. However, after that he suddenly picked up one of his aunt’s beloved china fruit bowls and simply dropped it on the floor. It fell on a rug, as it happened, and did not break, but old Mrs Cibber nearly passed out, the companion screamed, and the girl hurried him off home.

  “With the gun?”

  “With the gun.” Kenny shrugged his heavy shoulders. “As soon as the girl heard that Mrs Cibber had been shot, she jumped up with a tale that he had not taken it. She said she’d sneaked it out of his pocket and put it on the window sill. The lamest story you’ve ever heard! She’s game and she’s ready to say absolutely anything, but she won’t save him, poor kid. He was seen in the district at midnight.”

  Mr Campion put a hand through his sleek hair. “Ah. That rather tears it.”

  “Oh, it does. There’s no question that he did it. It hardly arises. What happened was this. The young folk got back to their bed-sitting-room about ten to nine. Neither of them will admit it, but it’s obvious that Woodruff was in one of those boiling but sulky rages which made him unfit for human society. The girl left him alone – I should say she has a gift for handling him – and she says she went to bed while he sat up writing letters. Quite late, she can’t or won’t say when, he went out to the post. He won’t say anything. We may or may not break him down, he’s a queer chap. However, we have a witness who saw him somewhere about midnight at the Kilburn end of Barraclough Road. Woodruff stopped him and asked if the last eastbound bus had gone. Neither of them had a watch, but the witness is prepared to swear it was just after midnight – which is important because the shot was fired at two minutes before twelve. We’ve got that time fixed.”

  Mr Campion, who had been taking notes, looked up in mild astonishment.

  “You got that witness very promptly,” he remarked. “Why did he come forward?”

  “He was a plainclothes man off duty,” said Kenny calmly. “One of the local men who had been out to a reunion dinner. He wasn’t tight, but he had decided to walk home before his wife saw him. I don’t know why he hadn’t a watch” – Kenny frowned at this defect – “anyway, he hadn’t, or it wasn’t going. But he was alert enough to notice Woodruff. He’s a distinctive chap, you know. Very tall and dark, and his manner was so nervy and excitable that the man thought it worth reporting.”

  Campion’s teeth appeared in a brief smile.

  “In fact, he recognised him at once as a man who looked as though he had done a murder?”

  “No.” The Inspector remained unruffled. “No, he said he looked like a chap who had just got something off his mind and was pleased with himself.”

  “I see. And meanwhile the shot was fired at two minutes to twelve.”

  “That’s certain.” Kenny brightened and became businesslike. “The man next door heard it and looked at his watch. We’ve got his statement and the old lady’s companion. Everyone else in the street is being questioned. But nothing has come in yet. It was a cold wet night and most people had their windows shut; besides, the room where the murder took place was heavily curtained. So far, these two are the only people who seem to have heard anything at all. The man next door woke up and nudged his wife who had slept through it. But then he may have dozed again, for the next thing he remembers is hearing screams for help. By the time he got to the window, the companion was out in the street in her dressing-gown, wedged in between the lamp post and the pillar box, screeching her little grey head off. The rain was coming down in sheets.”

  “When exactly was this?”

  “Almost immediately after the shot, according to the companion. She had been in bed for some hours and had slept. Her room is on the second floor, at the back. Mrs Cibber had not come up with her but had settled down at her bureau in the drawing room, as she often did in the evening. Mrs C was still very upset by the scene at the meal and did not want to talk. Miss Smith says she woke up and thought she heard the front door open. She won’t swear to this, and at any rate she thought nothing of it, for Mrs Cibber often slipped out to the box with letters before coming to bed. Exactly how long it was after she woke that she heard the shot she does not know, but it brought her scrambling out of bed. She agrees she might have been a minute or two finding her slippers and a wrapper, but she certainly came down right away. She says she found the street door open letting in the rain, and the drawing room door, which is next to it, wide open as well, and the lights in there full on.” He referred to his notes and began to read out loud. “‘I smelled burning’ – she means cordite – ‘and I glanced across the room to see poor Mrs Cibber on the floor with a dreadful hole in her forehead. I was too frightened to go near her, so I ran out of the house shouting “Murder! Thieves!”’”

  “That’s nice and old-fashioned. Did she see anybody?”

  “She says not, and I believe her. She was directly under the only lamp post for fifty yards and it certainly was raining hard.”

  Mr Campion appeared satisfied but unhappy. When he spoke, his voice was very gentle.

  “Do I understand that your case is that Woodruff came back, tapped on the front door, and was admitted by his aunt? After some conversation, which must have taken place in lowered tones since the companion upstairs did not hear it, he shot her and ran away, leaving all the doors open?”

  “Substantially, yes. Although he may have shot her as soon as he saw her.”

  “In that case she’d have been found dead in the hall.”

  Kenny blinked. “Yes, I suppose she would. Still, they couldn’t have talked much.”

  “Why?”

  The Inspector made a gesture of distaste. “This is the bit which gets under my skin,” he said. “They could hardly have spoken long – because she’d forgiven him. She had written to her solicitor. The finished letter was on her writing-pad ready for the post. She’d written to say she was thinking of making the upper part of her house into a home for her nephew and asked if there was a clause in her lease to prevent it. She also said that she wanted the work done quickly, as she had taken a fancy to her new niece and hoped in time there might be children. It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” His eyes were wretched. “That’s what I meant by futility. She’d forgiven him, see? She wasn’t a mean old harridan, she was just quick tempered. I told you this isn’t a mystery tale, this is ordinary, sordid life.”

  Mr Campion looked away.

  “Tragic,” he said. “Yes. A horrid thing. What do you want me to do?”

  Kenny sighed. “Find the gun,” he murmured.

  The lean man whistled.

  “You’ll certainly need that if you are to be sure of a conviction. How did you lose it?”

  “He’s ditched it somewhere. He didn’t get rid of it in Barraclough Road because the houses come right down to the street, and our chaps were searching for it within half an hour. At the end of the road he caught the last bus, which ought to come along at midnight b
ut was a bit late last night, I’m morally certain. These drivers make up time on the straight stretch by the park; it’s more than their jobs are worth, so you never get them to admit it. Anyhow, he didn’t leave the gun on the bus, and it’s not in the house where his room is. It’s not in the old lady’s house at 81 Barraclough Road because I’ve been over the house myself.” He peered at the taller man hopefully. “Where would you hide a gun in this city at night, if you were all that way from the river? It’s not so easy, is it? If it had been anywhere obvious it would have turned up by now.”

  “He may have given it to someone.”

  “And risked blackmail?” Kenny laughed. “He’s not as dumb as that. You’ll have to see him. He says he never had it – but that’s only natural. Yet where did he put it, Mr Campion? It’s only a little point but, as you say, it’s got to be solved.”

  Campion grimaced.

  “Anywhere, Kenny. Absolutely anywhere. In a drain —”

  “They’re narrow gratings in Barraclough Road.”

  “In a sand bin or a water tank —”

  “There aren’t any in that district.”

  “He threw it down in the street and someone, who felt he’d rather like to have a gun, picked it up. Your area isn’t peopled solely with the law abiding, you know.”

  Kenny became more serious. “That’s the real likelihood,” he admitted gloomily. “But all the same, I don’t believe he’s the type to throw away a gun casually. He’s too intelligent, too cautious. He’s hidden it. Where? Mr Oates said you’d know if anyone did.”

  Campion ignored this blatant flattery. He stood staring absently out of the window for so long that the Inspector was tempted to nudge him, and when at last he spoke, his question did not sound promising.