Alleyn’s voice cut coldly across his protestations.
‘I am an investigating officer employed by the police. I must behave as if I had no friends while I am working on this case. If you think for a little you will see that this must be so. At the risk of sounding pompous I must go a bit further and tell you that if I found my friendship with your uncle, your mother, or yourself, was in any way influencing my conduct of this case I should be obliged to give up. Ask to be relieved of the job. Already I have spoken to you as a friend – I should not have done this. If you are innocent, you are in no danger unless you prevaricate or shift ground, particularly in matters relating to your acquaintance with Captain Withers.’
‘You can’t suspect Withers! Why should he want to kill Uncle Bunch? It’s got nothing to do with him.’
‘In that case he has nothing to fear.’
‘On that account, of course, he hasn’t. I mean – oh, hell!’
‘Where were you when you lost this money to him?’
‘In a private house.’
‘Where was it?’
‘Somewhere near Leatherhead. Shackleton House, I think it’s called.’
‘Was it his house?’
‘Ask him. Ask him. Why do you badger me with all this! My God, isn’t it enough that I should be faced with the other business! I can’t stand any more. Let me out of this.’
‘You may go, certainly. There will be a statement for you to sign later on.’
Donald got up and walked to the door. He turned and faced Alleyn.
‘I’m as anxious as you,’ he said, ‘that the man should be caught. Naturally, I’m as anxious as anybody.’
‘Good,’ said Alleyn.
Donald’s face was puckered into the sort of grimace a small boy makes when he is trying not to cry. For some reason this gave him a strong look of his uncle. Alleyn felt his heart turn over. He got up, crossed the room in six long strides, and took Donald roughly by the arm.
‘There!’ he said, ‘if you’re innocent you’re safe. As for this other mess you’ve got yourself into, stick to the truth and we’ll do what we can for you. Tell your mama the house is rid of us for the time being. Now, march!’
He turned Donald round, shoved him through the door, and slammed it behind him.
‘Come on, Fox,’ he said. ‘Pack up those things – the will and the notes. Ring up the Yard and see if the postmortem report is through, tell them to look Withers up in the record, and if one of my men is free, send him straight off to Shackleton House, Leatherhead. He’d better take a search-warrant, but he’s not to use it without ringing me up first. If the place is locked up he’s to stay there and report to me by telephone. Tell him we want evidence of a gambling hell. Fix that while I see the men outside and then we’ll be off.’
‘To see Withers?’
‘Yes. To see Captain Maurice Withers who, unless I’m much mistaken, has added a gambling hell to his list of iniquitous sources of livelihood. My God, Fox, as someone was out for blood, why the hell couldn’t they widen their field to include Captain Maurice Withers? Come on.’
CHAPTER 11 Captain Withers at Home
The report on the post-mortem was ready. Fox took it down over the telephone and he and Alleyn discussed it on their way to Sling Street.
‘Dr Curtis,’ said Fox, ‘says there’s no doubt that he was suffocated. They’ve found’ – and here Fox consulted his book – ’Tardieu’s ecchymosis on the congested lungs and on the heart. There were signs of fatty degeneration in the heart. The blood was dark-coloured and very liquid –’
‘All right,’ said Alleyn violently. ‘Never mind that. Sorry, Fox. On you go.’
‘Well, sir, they seem to think that the condition of the heart would make everything much more rapid. That’s what you might call a merciful thing, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes. Barring the scar on the temple, Dr Curtis says there are no marks on the face. The mucous membrane in the fore-part of the palate is slightly congested. Posteriorly it is rather bleached. But there are no marks of violence.’
‘I noticed that. There was no struggle. He was unconscious after the blow on the temple,’ said Alleyn.
‘That’s what Dr Curtis thinks.’
‘This murderer knew what he was about,’ said Alleyn. ‘Usually your asphyxiating homicide merchant goes in for a lot of unnecessary violence. You get marks round the mouth. Has Curtis any idea what was used?’
‘He says possibly a plug of soft material introduced into the mouth and held over the nostrils.’
‘Yes. Not Bunchy’s handkerchief. That was quite uncreased.’
‘Perhaps his own handkerchief.’
‘I don’t think so, Fox. I found a trace of fine black woollen fluff in the mouth.’
‘The cloak?’
‘Looks like it. It might be. One of the reasons why the cloak was got out of the way. By the way, Fox, did you get a report from that PC in Belgrave Square last night?’
‘Yes. Nothing suspicious.’
They plodded on, working out lines to take in the endless interviews. They correlated, sorted and discussed each fragment of information. ‘Finding the pattern of the case,’ Alleyn called it. A five minutes’ walk brought them to Sling Street and to a large block of rather pretentious service flats. They took the lift up to 110 and rang the bell.
‘I’m going to take some risks here,’ said Alleyn.
The door was opened by Captain Withers himself.
He said: ‘Good morning. Want to see me?’
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Alleyn. ‘Yes. You had our message just now, I hope. May we come in?’
‘Certainly,’ said Withers and walked away from the door with his hands in his pockets.
Alleyn and Fox went in. They found themselves in a mass-production furnished sitting-room with a divan bed against one wall, three uniform armchairs, a desk, a table and built-in cupboards. It had started off by being an almost exact replica of all the other ‘bachelor flats’ in Grandison Mansions, but since it is impossible to live in any place without leaving some print of yourself upon it, this room bore the impress of Captain Maurice Withers. It smelt of hairwash, cigars and whisky. On one wall hung a framed photograph of the sort advertised in magazines as ‘artistic studio studies from the nude’. On the bookshelves guides to the Turf stood between shabby copies of novels Captain Withers had bought on the Riviera and, for some reason, troubled to smuggle into England. On a table by the divan bed were three or four medical text-books. ‘Donald Potter’s,’ thought Alleyn. Through a half-open door Alleyn caught a glimpse of a small bedroom and a second masterpiece that may have been a studio study but appeared to be an exercise in pornographic photography.
Captain Withers caught Fox’s bland gaze directed at this picture and shut the bedroom door.
‘Have a drink?’ he said.
‘No, thank you,’ said Alleyn.
‘Well, sit down then.’
Alleyn and Fox sat down, Fox with extreme propriety, Alleyn with an air of leisurely fastidiousness. He crossed one long leg over the other, hung his hat on