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  ‘Did you know why he was here?’

  Craven shook his head. ‘No. As a matter of fact …’ He hesitated. ‘Well, he and I weren’t very good friends. There was no quarrel or anything like that, but we just didn’t hit it off.’

  ‘I see.’ Paul nodded. ‘Did your stepfather know that you were here?’

  Again the other shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you come over?’

  There was a perceptible pause before he got a reply to this question. ‘I came over because of a woman,’ said Craven at last. ‘But I don’t want to drag her into it. I might as well tell you that it was a woman of whom my stepfather strongly disapproved.’

  Paul put one or two more questions which Craven answered openly and without apparent flurry, and then accompanied by Mr. Robin and Inspector Chuff he went back to the charge-room.

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ said Round Robin. ‘That lets Craven out. He couldn’t have been in two places at once.’

  15

  Attempted Murder

  The finding of Leslie Crane in the police station at Buckley dealt a severe blow to Paul’s theory. In fact it smashed it completely. The man’s alibi was cast-iron and allowed no loophole. At the time that William Hooper had been shot on the Blue Moon, Craven had been securely locked up in a cell and, therefore, could have had no hand in the crime. That is to say, that he had no actual hand in it, although, as Paul realised, he could quite easily have directed the whole thing, deputing some other person to carry out the actual murder.

  Paul frowned as he drove the big car on towards Bromley, and his brother, who was seated at his side, kept a discreet silence. There was something very deep here, of that Paul felt sure. Behind the clouds of doubt and suspicion that obscured his mind, he kept on every now and again getting little flashing glimpses of something that was too intangible to be called a theory.

  He pushed his foot on the accelerator to take the slope of Mason’s Hill, topped the rise, and slid down towards Prospect Place. He brought the car to a halt at the end of the cul-de-sac where Emily Boulter lived and got out.

  ‘I think you’d better wait here, old chap,’ he said to his brother, speaking for the first time since they had left the village of Buckley. ‘I shan’t be long.’

  Bob nodded, and Paul turned into the narrow street and made his way towards the house bearing the worn brass plate.

  The string was no longer protruding from the letter-box, and raising his hand he knocked. No deep voice answered him from within the cottage, and he wondered if the gaunt woman was out. It looked very much like it, but he decided to knock again, in case she might be resting and had not heard the first summons. But there was no answer to his second knock either. Nothing but silence. There was nothing for it but to go and have tea somewhere and come back — it was useless leaving a note because he remembered that she had said she couldn’t read.

  He was in the act of turning to walk down the short path to the gate when he happened to glance at the window and stopped. The spotless curtains that covered it — a tribute to Emily Boulter’s laundering — were an inch apart in the centre. Through the gap he could see the shutters that had been closed over the window on the inside. He remembered those shutters. They folded back on each side of the recess in which the window was built. Paul looked closer, and his forehead puckered in a frown. It seemed strange that she should have closed those shutters in the middle of the afternoon; even on that day of rain when he had visited her before, they had been open.

  He went nearer, stepping off the little path onto the garden so that he could get quite near to the window, and peered through the glass. And then he uttered a startled exclamation, for the shutters had not only been closed but the joints had been stuffed with paper from the inside.

  Paul went back again to the front door, his face set and a little white. He gripped the handle above the letter-box and shook it. The door was firmly fastened. Next he tried the flap of the letter-box. It had been secured from the inside and was immovable. With rapidly growing alarm, he stepped back two paces and hurled himself at the door. It gave a protesting crack and shivered but held. Twice he flung himself against the barrier, and at the third attempt there was a splintering crash and the door flew back. He almost went with it owing to the force of his rush, but a clutch at the frame saved him from losing his balance.

  A great gush of gas-laden air greeted his nostrils and caught chokingly at his throat, and from the dim interior of the room he heard a low monotonous hiss. Pulling out his handkerchief, he clapped it over his nose and mouth, and stumbled across to the point from whence the hissing came. It was the gas-ring in the fireplace on which Emily Boulter heated her irons, and he fumbled for the tap. He found it and turned it off, and the low, malignant hissing ceased.

  Groping his way to the door, he gulped in some fresh air, and once more plunged into that gas-charged atmosphere. He found the thing he was seeking — the huddled form of the laundress, her head sunk forward on her chest, seated on a chair beside the table. Seizing the chair, he dragged it and its helpless burden towards the door and into the stream of fresh, life-giving air that was pouring in.

  The woman’s gaunt face was ominously tinged with blue, but she was still breathing, although Paul realised that it would only have been a question of minutes before she would have succumbed to that poisonous atmosphere.

  The open door was rapidly clearing the room of gas, and he calculated that in ten minutes or so it would be safe to venture in. He stood looking out into the small forecourt and waited as patiently as possible. He could do nothing at present for the unconscious Emily Boulter. Her breathing, though faint, was fairly regular, and so was the beating of her heart. The best thing was to let her recover of her own accord, helped by the fresh air which she was now drawing into her lungs. She was, luckily, very healthy, and possessed a remarkable constitution, so that he felt that the aftereffects of the gas, though unpleasant, would not prove serious.

  In the meanwhile, he wondered just what had happened in this little cottage that afternoon. Was this an attempt at suicide, or something infinitely more sinister? It was really a waste of time to speculate. Emily Boulter, when she recovered, would be able to answer that question finally.

  The air of the room was now practically clear. The smell of the gas still hung heavily everywhere, but the air was breathable, and he went inside and looked about him. The interstices of the shutters over the window had been packed with strips of brown paper and handkerchiefs rammed firmly home. The chimney had been closed with several towels — towels that he saw had been freshly washed and ironed, the property without doubt of one of Emily Boulter’s customers. He examined the letter-box. Part of an old box lid had been screwed over it behind, and he saw that the screws were fresh ones, their heads new and shiny. Going back into the room, he found on the table a scrap of paper, and picking it up he read the misspelt message scrawled on it in pencil:

  ‘I done it becos I was lonly.’

  He frowned. From the judgment he had formed of Emily Boulter’s character, this was utterly unlike her. Lonely she was, but it was a loneliness of her own seeking and not the kind that would have preyed on her mind and driven her to self-destruction.

  Paul stared with narrowed eyes at the paper which he still held in his hand, but he was not looking at it. With the eye of his mind he was looking beyond it, into the realm of conjecture from which had suddenly emerged a startling thought — a thought that was so bizarre that it acted like a splash of cold water. Could it be right? Could this sudden idea that had come to him be the true answer to the problem?

  He was still wondering when a sound behind him made him turn quickly, to find that Emily Boulter was recovering from the effects of the gas.

  16

  Emily Boulter’s Story

  The first words she uttered were characteristic. ‘Help me into the kitchen,’ she muttered, ‘I’m going to be sick!’

  Paul helped her through to the spotless kitc
hen and tactfully turned his back while the natural results of the gas manifested themselves.

  ‘Now,’ she said a few seconds later in a stronger voice, ‘if I can have a good strong cup of tea I shall be all right.’

  She refused his offer to help, although she was still shaky. Filling the kettle, she brought it into the sitting-room and put it on the gas-ring. While she put the tea in the tea-pot and waited for the kettle to boil, she said nothing, and Paul did not question her, thinking it was best to allow her time to recover. When the tea had been made and she poured out two cups, she began on her own account.

  ‘Sit down, young man,’ she said, ‘and tell me how you got here and what happened.’

  Paul smiled. ‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me what happened.’

  ‘I can tell you up to a point,’ she said, sipping her tea with relish. ‘But after that it’s your turn.’

  ‘Well, let’s hear your story first,’ he suggested. ‘How did all this happen?’

  She set down her cup, and her gaunt face was grim. ‘It happened because I was a fool!’ she said. ‘If I’d had any sense, I should have mistrusted the man from the start.’

  She went over to the fireplace and turned out the gas under the steaming kettle. Coming back, she sat down by the table, resting her bony elbows on it. Cupping her chin in her hands, she looked steadily at Paul and began her story.

  ‘I never have any food in the middle of the day,’ she said. ‘A cup of tea and sometimes a slice of bread and butter does me until I’ve finished my work. I had this today about twelve o’clock, and I’d just finished it when there was a knock on the door. I shouted to whoever it was to pull the string and come in. Well, a man came in. He was a respectable-looking feller but shabbily dressed. His overcoat was shiny and threadbare, but it had been a good one, you could see that; there’s no mistaking the cut of a coat. I asked him what he wanted, and he said that he was a plain-clothes police officer, and he had been sent to make further enquiries about what I had told you. I didn’t like the look of him at all, and I told him that I’d said all I could say, so what was the good of bothering me anymore.’ She paused and took a long drink of tea.

  ‘What happened then?’ asked Paul.

  ‘He said that he didn’t want to bother me but that it was necessary he should ask me a few questions. And he began to ask me all about the man I’d seen on the bus. I told him what I had told you, and while I was talking I noticed something, and that’s why I said just now that I was a fool.’

  ‘What did you notice?’ said Paul quietly.

  ‘I noticed his hands,’ said Miss Boulter, and her squint became more marked with the intensity of her gaze as she stared at him. ‘He’d taken them out of his pockets and was playing with the back of a chair while he talked.’ She leaned forward impressively. ‘They were the hands of the man I saw on the bus that night — the man who wore the onyx ring.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ Paul’s eyes were shining with suppressed excitement as he put the question to her.

  She nodded. ‘I’ll take me oath on it,’ she declared. ‘This man didn’t look the same. He was fair instead of being white, and wasn’t old, but his hands were the same.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything. It gave me a bit of a shock when I realised that the man I was talking to had killed the old gentleman, but I tried not to let him see I’d noticed anything, while I thought what was best to be done. I think he did notice, though, for I saw him stiffen a bit, and he put his hands back quickly into his pockets. I went on talking about the murder while all the time I was wondering how I could keep the feller until I could get hold of a policeman.

  ‘As it happened, he didn’t give me a chance. Suddenly, in the middle of a question, he sprang at me and held a handkerchief over my nose and mouth. It was soaked with something that smelt like rotten apples, and I was so taken by surprise that I couldn’t stop him.’ She glared at Paul as though he were the man who had done this outrageous thing. ‘I put up a fight, though,’ she continued grimly. ‘But he was a strong customer, and the smell of the stuff on the handkerchief was making me dizzy. I felt a funny, light sensation, and then I don’t know what happened. The next thing I remember was waking up and finding myself here.’

  ‘Can you describe the man?’ asked Paul.

  She frowned. ‘He was one of those fellers you wouldn’t look at twice in a crowd,’ she answered. ‘He wasn’t tall, and he wasn’t short, and his hair and moustache were like yellow straw.’

  ‘Oh, he had a moustache, had he?’

  ‘Yes. One of those ragged affairs that fall over the mouth. I don’t know as I’d know him again, except for his hands.’

  ‘What were they like?’

  ‘It isn’t easy to tell you in words,’ said Emily Boulter, ‘but they were funny, rather fat and stubby. I’d know ’em again anywhere.’

  ‘I hope you’ll have a chance to identify them,’ said Paul.

  ‘I hope so too,’ said the laundress fiercely. ‘I’d like to have ten minutes alone with that young man!’

  ‘You’ve undoubtedly had a very narrow escape,’ said Paul gravely. ‘His object was murder. He used chloroform to drug you, and then when you were unconscious, sealed up the room, wrote that note to make it look as if you’d committed suicide, turned on the gas, and left — by the back way, presumably.’

  ‘And if you hadn’t come along, I should be dead by now,’ said the gaunt woman. ‘I shan’t forget that.’ She extended a huge hand and gripped Paul’s with a clasp that was like a man’s. ‘Will you have another cup of tea?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I really ought to be getting back. My brother is waiting for me in the car, and he’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’

  ‘Then run along,’ said Emily Boulter, much the same as she might have spoken to a small boy. ‘I must get on with my work too. Those towels and things will have to be washed again.’

  ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’ said Paul. ‘You wouldn’t like me to send for a doctor?’

  ‘Good gracious, no! I don’t want any doctor messing about me! I’ve got a bit of a headache, but that’s all. If I have a lie down presently, I shall be as right as ninepence.’

  Paul was rather reluctant to leave her alone, but she was insistent, and he took his leave. He found Bob waiting rather restlessly.

  ‘Hello!’ he greeted as his brother approached the car. ‘I was just wondering if I should come and see what had happened. You have been a long time.’

  ‘Couldn’t help it, old chap,’ said Paul. ‘I was nearly chief witness at an inquest.’ He got into the car and slid behind the wheel. ‘I’ll tell you all about it on the way back.’

  He did so, to Bob’s intense interest. ‘What was the object of doing her in?’ asked his brother when he had finished.

  Paul began to speak rapidly, outlining the amazing idea that had sprung into his mind in Emily Boulter’s little sitting-room. He had only just concluded when he brought the car to a halt outside the house at Hampstead.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ he asked with a smile as Bob remained silent.

  ‘I think you’ve hit it,’ replied his brother, ‘but there are a lot of gaps to fill in, and it’s going to take a deuce of a lot of proving.’

  ‘I know it is,’ agreed Paul. ‘And that’s our job from now on.’

  17

  A Job for Bob

  Paul spent the evening quietly, lounging comfortably in his favourite armchair, and smoking with half-closed eyes, only moving to consume the excellent dinner that his cook provided, and returning to his original position immediately after the meal. The more that he thought over the idea that had obtruded on his consciousness like the sudden switching on of a light in a dark room, the more convinced he became that it was the right one. It explained several things that were otherwise unexplainable. At the same time, there still remained a great deal that must be fitted in. But he was certain th
at he was on the right track, although the bridge between suspicion and certainty was a long one. He went to bed at last, still thinking over the problem, and when at seven-thirty his early morning tea was brought he had come to a definite decision regarding his next move.

  Immediately after breakfast he put through a telephone call to Mr. Robin. The inspector had just arrived, and he listened with interest to what his friend had to say, although Paul carefully refrained from mentioning the person on whom his suspicion centred.

  ‘I’ll come along in about an hour and a half, Paul,’ he promised. ‘There are one or two things I’ve got to see to here first, and then I’ll be along.’

  The detective hung up the receiver and filled in the time while he was waiting for Mr. Robin’s appearance by making notes of his conclusions concerning the Blue Moon mystery. He had barely finished these when the inspector was announced. He looked tired and rather harassed.

  ‘I’ve been up before the Assistant Commissioner,’ he explained when Paul commented on this. ‘He wants to know how the case against Lonsdale is going, and seems to think that we’ve been rather slow. In a nutshell, what he wants is this. We’ve either got to bring a definite charge against him and get him committed for trial, or release him altogether.’

  Paul’s face was grave. ‘If you release Lonsdale,’ he said earnestly, ‘you’ll be an accessory to murder!’

  Round Robin stared at him. ‘I don’t get you,’ he muttered. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean this,’ said Paul. ‘At the present moment Richard Lonsdale is safe. But once the charge of murder against him is definitely withdrawn, and he is released, his life will be in danger. As I see it, this plot not only involves the murder of William Hooper, but the death of Richard Lonsdale as well to make it successful. If that death is brought about by the law, all well and good, but if it isn’t — if the law refuses to hang Lonsdale — then the person at the back of this business will have to take more drastic steps.’