"Trying to. Also with Fez. There, of course, we shall have no difficulty. They will doubtless be able to furnish us with photographs and finger-prints of the man they shot. The man who called himself Olivier."
CHAPTER 8
POINTER had found one other thing among Vardon's effects which might have a bearing on the case. This was a packet of four letters tied with a shoe-lace. They were all from an address which he had seen already given in the police reports as the home of Sir Richard Ash, the partner of the late Branscombe.
The notes were short ones. Beginning "Dear Philip," and ending "Sincerely yours, Barbara Ash."
And sincere enough the writer seemed to have been. Phrases such as "you're sleeping life away," varied with, "can't you wake up, and show what's really in you?" Once came the surprising aphorism, "There's no use your saying that content's a jewel. It isn't. It's awfully cheap paste."
Pointer had sat awhile thinking, after he read them. All but one were undated. The envelopes were missing, but the shortness, the absence of general news, the thick linen paper suggested that the notes had been sent to some one in England. They were the kind of letters that might be expected to have some effect. Had they stirred a man up to commit a crime? It was possible. It would depend on the man, and on whether they came as a final touch on the dipping scales of right and wrong. The keys were a different matter.
These damning keys. Seen in the morning-room at Riverview just before the end—if Florence was right—and found lying among a lot of oddments in the bottom of Vardon's valise marked for the hold. Pointer did not think that they had been slipped in after the things on top had been packed. Apart from how Vardon had got hold of them, why had he kept them? Were they to be used again? If so, why pack them in the bottom, and in a bag not intended for the voyage?
"A gentleman from New Scotland Yard to see you, sir," Bates announced immediately after the interview with Tangye, laying Pointer's card down beside the young man who sat reading the Araucana. In spirit back in the New World, listening to a war-chief's song.
Fiery and fresh, the lines still hummed in his head.
"No—I—eh—" Before he could collect his thoughts sufficiently to finish his protest, Pointer was bowing to him. Vardon did not ask what the Chief Inspector wanted. He waited. Pointer explained himself at once.
"I'm in charge of the investigations about that missing money. Would you mind telling me how the note which has been traced to you, came into your possession? I ought to tell you that a criminal charge may follow, and that, if so, what you say may be used against you. You are quite at liberty to refuse to answer—if you think it wise."
Vardon looked as though greatly tempted to avail himself of the freedom. But after a moment, he told Pointer the same story as he had the solicitor.
"And how do you explain the fact that her keys have been found in your luggage?" the Chief Inspector asked when the artist was silent.
"Her keys? Impossible! Mrs. Tangye's keys!" Vardon sat open-mouthed.
Pointer said that it was true, nevertheless.
Vardon, after staring at him, as though he might be joking, finally suggested that Mrs. Tangye must have dropped them unnoticed on his table when she was in his room. The artist went on to say that he had started his packing, by shaking the tablecloth into his valise, and then throwing in other things on top. The valise bore out this simple method.
"What hour did Mrs. Tangye come to your room?"
"About three."
"And what hour did you start packing?"
Vardon thought that he had begun about a quarter past eleven, when he came in from a musical play to which he had gone.
"Did you have any other visitors in your rooms on Tuesday?"
Vardon said that, as far as he knew, nobody had come to see him.
"And now, why did you—well—decamp, when Superintendent Haviland and an inspector of his called on you yesterday morning?"
Vardon flushed hotly. Up and up, the crimson surged, until his very ears burned a brick red against his fair hair.
"I lost my head," he said bitterly. "I wanted time to think things over."
"And to get rid of the remainder of the notes," Pointer finished to himself.
"Few people care to be caught in a tight corner by the police," Vardon went on. "That note I got Mrs. Tangye to write was in my bag. My bag had gone. Not that it's of any value except for that precious bit of paper. You must confess the outlook was pretty bad for me."
Naturally, since a man cannot be both hare and hound, Pointer never considered any outlook so bad that jockeying the police would better it.
"May I ask—by the way, we're verifying the whereabouts of every one, of course—merely a matter of routine—where you were this last Sunday?"
"Sunday?" Vardon seemed puzzled. "At a concert in the Albert Hall."
"Meet any friends?"
"No."
"Did you go alone?"
"Yes."
"And Monday afternoon?"
"Writing letters in my diggings."
"And Tuesday afternoon, from four to six?"
Vardon waited a moment as though to be quite sure.
"I did a lot of strolling through shops generally," he said vaguely.
"You were seen near Twickenham on a motor-bicycle about five," Pointer said suddenly. "Can you explain that?"
"I was thinking of calling on a friend who lives out that way. Then I changed my mind. Half decided to call on Mrs. Tangye and ask a question about the sending off the rest of the money. Thought better of that, too. Decided that I was too wrought up to think clearly, and roamed the shops instead, chiefly the Army and Navy stores."
"Just so. But may I ask why you didn't mention this trip across the river just now? Why you didn't tell it me voluntarily?"
The worm turned.
"Does any one ever tell anything voluntarily to the police?" Vardon asked, and Pointer's eye acknowledged the hit. "You didn't go to Riverview itself last Tuesday?"
"I only wish I had." Vardon leant forward. "I looked at my watch as I crossed Richmond Bridge. It was a little before five. Had I gone on, it might have made all the difference. A chat sometimes does."
"Were you on friendly terms with Mrs. Tangye?'
"I'd never met her before. She came up last Tuesday unannounced. As she came in she introduced herself."
"I see. You never went to see your cousin after his marriage?"
Vardon played with the covers of the book beside him. He had the true artist's hands. Small-boned, slender.
"Once. Our parents had not been on good terms. He was much older than I. By chance Mrs. Branscombe was out that day. Just as, by chance, I was in South America when they married, and at sea the day he died."
"Mrs. Tangye was different, you say, from what you expected?"
"Rather!"
"And how was it that you had so clear an idea of what she would be like? Since you had never met her?"
"Oh—well—I had heard of her, you know. Got an impression of a rather masterful character—"
"I see." Pointer looked at his boot tips as he sat resting his head on one hand. "Have you written to Mrs. Tangye lately?" Pointer asked