The Attic Murder by S. Fowler Wright (read me like a book txt) 📕

INSPECTOR COMBRIDGE was in the office of the Assistant-Commissioner.

Sir William Ingleby had discussed the Rabone murder with him for the last hour, and his decision was still to come.

“It isn’t that I don’t trust you, Combridge,” he said. “I don’t suppose we’ve got a sounder officer in the force, or one on whose judgement I should be more pleased to rely. But I can see that you’re not certain yourself, and after what has happened already — well, the press and the public have been kinder than we’ve deserved, but everyone’s watching now to see that we bring the thing to a satisfactory end, and a third mistake might be more than some of us could survive.

“As to the tale of how Hammerton got away, I’m with you when you say it leaves a lot to explain, but, after all, it’s quite a possible thing. You must remember that he asked you to leave him unwatched on the night when he started his flight. At the most, I don’t see how you can go further today than inviting Banks to call in and clear up one or two matters like that hundred pounds bribe, which I daresay he’ll be quite equal to doing. Of course, when you’ve had time to verify some of Entwistle’s allegations, you may be on stronger grounds. But even there we’ve got to remember that they are made by a man who admits his own criminal practices, by implication at least, and who is not free from suspicion of being the murderer.”

“Yes, I admit all that, sir,” Inspector Combridge answered stubbornly. He had made up his own mind, perhaps the more firmly for the time which that process had required, and was resolved that the hesitation of his Chief must not frustrate the full success of the coup on which he had now determined.

He said: “From the telephone conversation I’ve had with Sir Reginald, I reckon it won’t be many hours before he’ll have checked up on Entwistle’s statements sufficiently to give us all the proof we shall need at this stage. We needn’t put the Rabone case to the front till we can see further ahead, but I’ve got a feeling that — - “

It was a sentence he was not destined to finish, for he was interrupted by an announcement that Mr. Jesse Banks had called, and would like to see him.

“I’d better go, sir?” he asked.

“No. I think not. We’ll have him here. It’s not fair to leave all the responsibility on your shoulders. I’ll talk to him myself, and then tell you what I’ve decided to do.”

Inspector Combridge could make no objection to this, though he saw that Sir William’s decision was capable of an interpretation less flattering to himself than that which had been expressed.

The next moment, Mr. Banks, looking his usual calm and taciturn self, entered the room.

Certainly, Sir William thought, he had no aspect of criminality His manner was that of a man whose mind was at ease, and there was somewhat more than usual of friendliness in his tone as he said: “I hear you’ve got Driver. You can always reckon on Beddoes to make his catch if he once gets on the trail. I meant to be first for once, but I suppose it’s you that will be in at the death… It’s your organization that’s bound to beat any private office.”

Sir William Ingleby interposed before Inspector Combridge could reply.

“Mr. Banks,” he said, “you are a gentleman of good reputation, and when aspersions against any such come from criminal mouths we are very slow to believe. But we often think it well to inform those who are traduced in such ways, so that the facts may be properly ascertained, and no lingering suspicion may remain against them.

“It is due to you to say that during the last twenty-four hours you have been the subject of allegations of the most serious kind, which your very opportune call will doubtless help us to dispose of as they deserve.”

He went on to narrate the nature and extent of these accusations, not shrinking from a sufficient bluntness, and yet putting them in an impersonal and putative manner, at which it would not be easy for an innocent man to take offence.

Mr. Banks listened without interruption, and with no more sign of feeling than a slight smile which crossed his face at times as the more monstrous of these charges appeared.

“I suppose,” he said easily, when the recital was concluded, “that you wish me to make a formal denial of these allegations, as, of course, I do. But,” and his manner changed to that of a faint contempt as he turned to the inspector, “I always knew you were jealous of what I do, but I didn’t think you’d fall into such a mug’s trap as that.

“Of course, I’ve been mixing myself up with the Driver gang. How do you suppose a private detective gets along? Of course, I didn’t want you to know I’d been at number thirteen that night. I like to go my own way, without interference from you, and in this case I thought it cheap at the price

“I daresay Sir Reginald would have done too, if you’d left me to complete what I was doing. But, anyway, it’s between him and me, and if he disallows the payment, I daresay I can stand the loss.

“I think that’s the only point that deserves an answer in the whole tale. I’ve helped you to bring Entwistle to justice, which he’s been too clever to let you do in the last ten years, and when he turns on me, you’re foolish enough to swallow the hook.”

There was a moment’s silence as he concluded. Sir William, more than half convinced that they had heard the contemptuous protest of an innocent man, and recognizing that his defence was largely a repetition of the arguments he had himself been urging upon the inspector before Mr. Banks entered the room, looked at his subordinate officer to see what effect it had had on his mind.

Inspector Combridge saw that if he stood his ground, and was wrong, he would be discredited beyond further remedy. He may be excused if there was a moment of hesitation during which his reply paused, and in that instant Sir William’s telephone rang.

“Mr. Jellipot?” they heard him say. “Oh yes, the Rabone matter, of course. And who did you say? Well, show them up.” He laid the receiver down as he said: “Mr. Jellipot, Mr. Hammerton’s lawyer, is here. I thought we had better see him together.”

As he spoke, Mr. Jellipot entered the room, with Francis Hammerton and Augusta Garten behind him.

Mr. Jellipot paused when he saw the visitor that Sir William already had. He took no notice of the amazed expressions of those who observed the two who followed him into the room. He said, in his precise and almost diffident manner: “It is most opportune that Mr. Banks should be with us now. It will save trouble all round. It is my painful duty to charge him with the attempted murder of — - “

He was interrupted by the voice of the man of whom he spoke, which had changed its tone to one of peremptory order.

“I’ve heard enough of this. Hands up, if you think your lives are worth keeping.” He added sharply: “I shan’t warn you again.” His eyes as he spoke were on Inspector Combridge and the Assistant Commissioner, whom he doubtless recognized as his most formidable opponents, and the last words were for the Inspector, who had shown a dangerous reluctance to accept the ignominy that obedience must entail both upon himself and the force to which he belonged.

It is difficult to give equal attention to several people at once who are not all at the same side of the room, and it may be in that that Mr. Jellipot saw his opportunity, but his own explanation was that he acted from an impulse of fear alone.

He had not yet been asked to take a seat, and he was standing beside a table on which there was a carafe of water, very similar to that which had been overset on the occasion of Francis Hammerton’s escape from custody a few weeks before.

There seems to be some faint suggestion of poetic justice, very difficult to analyse, in the second appearance of one of these articles at the present crisis.

However that be, the fact was that Mr. Jellipot caught the bottle by the neck, and hurled it with considerable force at Mr. Banks’s face, against which it broke, with results which were not conducive to rapid and accurate shooting by a