Rowley paused.
"Somehow I don't think I handled the business very well. I thought when I went in that I was the one who was on top. But the fellow must have been rather a clever fellow. I couldn't pin him down to anything definite. I thought he'd be frightened when I hinted he'd been doing a spot of blackmail, but it just seemed to amuse him. He asked me - damned cheek - if I was in the market too? 'You can't play your dirty game with me,' I said. 'I've nothing to hide.' And he said rather nastily that that wasn't his meaning. The point was, he said, that he'd got something to sell and was I a buyer? 'What do you mean?' I said. He said: 'How much will you - or the family generally - pay me for the definite proof that Robert Underhay, reported dead in Africa, is really alive and kicking?' I asked him why the devil we should pay anything at all? And he laughed and said, 'Because I've got a client coming this evening who certainly will pay a very substantial sum for proof positive that Robert Underhay is dead.' Then - well, then, I'm afraid I rather lost my temper and told him that my family weren't used to doing that kind of dirty business. If Underhay was really alive, I said, the fact ought to be quite easy to establish. Upon that I was just stalking out when he laughed and said in what was really rather a queer tone, 'I don't think you'll prove it without my co-operation.' Funny sort of way he said that."
"And then?"
"Well, frankly, I went home rather disturbed. Felt, you know, that I'd messed things up. Rather wished I'd left it to old Jeremy to tackle after all. I mean, dash it all, a lawyer's used to dealing with slippery customers."
"What time did you leave the Stag?"
"I've no idea. Wait a sec. Must have been just before nine because I heard the pips for the news as I was going along the village - through one of the windows."
"Did Arden say who it was he was expecting? The 'client'?"
"No. I took it for granted it was David Hunter. Who else could it be?"
"He didn't seem in any way alarmed by the prospect?"
"I tell you the fellow was thoroughly pleased with himself and on top of the world!"
Spence indicated with a slight gesture the heavy steel tongs.
"Did you notice these in the grate, Mr Cloade?"
"Those? No - I don't think so. The fire wasn't lit." He frowned, trying to visualise the scene. "There were fire-irons in the grate, I'm sure, but I can't say I noticed what they were." He added, "Was that what -"
Spence nodded.
"Smashed his skull in."
Rowley frowned.
"Funny. Hunter's a lightly built chap - Arden was a big man - powerful."
The Superintendent said in a colourless voice:
"The medical evidence is that he was struck down from behind and that the blows delivered with the head of the tongs were struck from above."
Rowley said thoughtfully:
"Of course he was a cocksure sort of a bloke - but all the same I wouldn't have turned my back with a fellow in the room whom I was trying to bleed white and who'd done some pretty tough fighting in the war. Arden can't have been a very cautious sort of chap."
"If he had been cautious very likely he'd be alive now," said the Superintendent dryly.
"I wish to God he was," said Rowley fervently. "As it is I feel I've mucked things up thoroughly. If only I hadn't got on my high horse and stalked off, I might have got something useful out of him. I ought to have pretended that we were in the market, but the thing's so damned silly. I mean, who are we to bid against Rosaleen and David? They've got the cash. None of us could raise five hundred pounds between us."
The Superintendent picked up the gold lighter.
"Seen this before?"
A crease appeared between Rowley's brows. He said slowly:
"I've seen it somewhere, yes, but I can't remember where. Not very long ago. No - I can't remember."
Spence did not give the lighter into Rowley's outstretched hand. He put it down and picked up the lipstick, unsheathing it from its case.
"And this?"
Rowley grinned.
"Really, that's not in my line. Superintendent."
Thoughtfully, Spence smeared a little on the back of his hand. He put his head on one side, studying it appreciatively.
"Brunette colouring, I should say," he remarked.
"Funny things you policemen know," said Rowley. He got up. "And you don't - definitely do not - know who the dead man was?"
"Have you any idea yourself, Mr Cloade?"
"I only wondered," said Rowley slowly. "I mean - this fellow was our only clue to Underhay. Now that he's dead - well, looking for Underhay is going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack."
"There'll be publicity, Mr Cloade," said Spence. "Remember that in due course a lot of this will appear in the press. If Underhay is alive and comes to read about it - well, he may come forward."
"Yes," said Rowley doubtfully. "He may."
"But you don't think so?"
"I think," said Rowley Cloade, "that Round One has gone to David Hunter."
"I wonder," said Spence. As Rowley went out, Spence picked up the gold lighter and looked at the initials D.H. on it. "Expensive bit of work," he said to Sergeant Graves. "Not mass produced. Quite easily identified. Greatorex or one of those Bond Street places. Have it seen to!"
"Yes, sir."
Then the Superintendent looked at the wrist-watch - the glass was smashed and the hands pointed to ten minutes past nine.
He looked at the Sergeant.
"Got the report on this. Graves?"
"Yes, sir. Mainspring's broken."
"And the mechanism of the hands?"
"Quite all right, sir."
"What, in your opinion. Graves, does the watch tell us?"
Graves murmured warily, "Seems as though it might give us the time the crime was committed."
"Ah," said Spence, "when you've been as long in the Force as I have, you'll be a little suspicious of anything so convenient as a smashed watch. It can be genuine - but it's a well-known hoary old trick. Turn the hands of a watch to a time that suits you - smash it - and out with some virtuous alibi. But you don't catch an old bird that way. I'm keeping a very open mind on the subject of the time this crime was committed. Medical evidence is: between 8 p.m. and 11 p.m."
Sergeant Graves cleared his throat.
"Edwards, second gardener at Furrowbank, says he saw David Hunter coming out of a side door there about 7.30. The maids didn't know he was down here. They thought he was up in London with Mrs Gordon. Shows he was in the neighbourhood all right."
"Yes," said Spence. "I'll be interested to hear Hunter's own account of his doings."
"Seems like a clear case, sir," said Graves, looking at the initials on the lighter.
"H'm," said the Superintendent. "There's still this to account for."
He indicated the lipstick.
"It had rolled under the chest of drawers, sir. Might have been there some time."
"I've checked up," said Spence. "The last time a woman occupied that room was three weeks ago. I know service isn't up to much nowadays - but I still think they run a mop under the furniture once in three weeks. The Stag is kept pretty clean and tidy on the whole."
"There's been no suggestion of a woman being mixed up with Arden."
"I know," said the Superintendent. "That's why that lipstick is what I call the unknown quantity."
Sergeant Graves refrained from saying "Cherchez la femme." He had a very good French accent and he knew better than to irritate Superintendent Spence by drawing attention to it. Sergeant Graves was a tactful young man.
Chapter 17
Superintendent Spence looked up at Shepherd's Court, Mayfair, before stepping inside its agreeable portal. Situated modestly in the vicinity of Shepherd's Market, it was discreet, expensive and inconspicuous.
Inside, Spence's feet sunk into soft pile carpet, there was a velvet covered settee and a jardiniere full of flowering plants.
A small automatic lift faced him, with a flight of stairs at one side of it. On the right of the hall was a door marked Office.
Spence pushed it open and went through.
He found himself in a small room with a counter, behind which was a table and a typewriter, and two chairs. One was drawn up to the table, the other, a more decorative one, was set at an angle to the window. There was no one visible.
Spying a bell inset on the mahogany counter, Spence pressed it. When nothing happened, he pressed it again. A minute or so later a door in the far wall was opened and a resplendent person in uniform appeared. His appearance was that of a foreign General or possibly Field Marshal, but his speech was of London and uneducated London at that.
"Yes, sir?"
"Mrs Gordon Cloade."
"Third floor, sir. Shall I ring through first?"
"She's here, is she?" said Spence. "I had an idea she might be in the country."
"No, sir, she's been here since Saturday last."
"And Mr David Hunter?"
"Mr Hunter's been here, too."
"He's not been away?"
"No, sir."
"Was he here last night?"
"Now then," said the Field Marshal, suddenly becoming aggressive. "What's all this about? Want to know every one's life history?"
Silently Spence displayed his warrant card. The Field Marshal was immediately deflated and became cooperative.
"Sorry, I'm sure," he said. "Couldn't tell, could I?"
"Now then, was Mr Hunter here last night?"
"Yes, sir, he was. At least to the best of my belief he was. That is, he didn't say he was going away."
"Would you know if he was away?"
"Well, generally speaking, no. I don't suppose I should. Gentlemen and ladies usually say if they're not going to be here. Leave word about letters or what they want said if any one rings up."
"Do telephone calls go through this office?"
"No, most of the flats have their own lines. One or two prefer not to have a telephone and then we send up word on the house phone and the people come down and speak from the box in the hall."
"But Mrs Cloade's flat has its own phone?"
"Yes, sir."
"And as far as you know they were both here last night?"
"That's right."
"What about meals?"
"There's a restaurant, but Mrs Cloade and Mr Hunter don't very often use it. They usually go out to dinner."
"Breakfast?"
"That's served in the flats."
"Can you find out if breakfast was served this morning to them?"
"Yes, sir. I can find out from room service."
Spence nodded. "I'm going up now. Let me know about that when I come down."
"Very good, sir."
Spence entered the lift and pressed the button for the third floor. There were only two flats on each landing. Spence pushed the bell of No. 9.
David Hunter opened it. He did not know the Superintendent by sight and he spoke brusquely.
"Well, what is it?"
"Mr Hunter?"
"Yes."
"Superintendent Spence of the Oatshire County Police. Can I have a word with you?"
"I apologise, Superintendent." He grinned. "I thought you were a tout. Come in."
He led the way into a modern and charming room. Rosaleen Cloade was standing by the window and turned at their entrance.
"Superintendent Spence, Rosaleen," said Hunter. "Sit down, Superintendent. Have a drink?"
"No, thank you, Mr Hunter."
Rosaleen had inclined her head slightly. She sat now, her back to the window, her hands clasped tightly on her lap.
"Smoke?" David preferred cigarettes.
"Thanks." Spence took a cigarette, waited... watched David slide a hand into a pocket, slide it out, frown, look round and pick up a box of matches. He struck one and lit the Superintendent's cigarette.
"Thank you, sir."
"Well," said David, easily, as he lit his own cigarette. "What's wrong at Warmsley Vale? Has our cook been dealing in the Black Market? She provides us with wonderful food, and I've always wondered if there was some sinister story behind it."
"It's rather more serious than that," said the Superintendent. "A man died at the Stag Inn last night. Perhaps you saw it in the papers?"
David shook his head.
"No, I didn't notice it. What about him?"
"He didn't only die. He was killed. His head was smote in as a matter of fact."
A half-choked exclamation came from Rosaleen. David said quickly:
"Please, Superintendent, don't enlarge on any details. My sister is delicate. She can't help it, but if you mention blood and horrors she'll probably faint."
"Oh, I'm sorry," said the Superintendent. "But there wasn't any blood to speak of. It was murder right enough, though."
He paused. David's eyebrows went up.
He said gently:
"You interest me. Where do we come in?"
"We hoped you might be able to tell us something about this man, Mr Hunter."
"I?"
"You called to see him on Saturday evening last. His name - or the name he was registered under - was Enoch Arden."
"Yes, of course. I remember now."
David spoke quietly, without embarrassment.
"Well, Mr Hunter?"
"Well, Superintendent, I'm afraid I can't help you. I know next to nothing about the man."
"Was his name really Enoch Arden?"
"I should very much doubt it."
"Why did you go to see him?"
"Just one of the usual hard luck stories. He mentioned certain places, war experiences, people -" David shrugged his shoulders. "Just a touch, I'm afraid. The whole thing was rather bogus."
