Oates paused and then said: “If I may take the liberty, sir.”
“Yes, Oates?”
“They all says, sir, that Mr. Watchman threw that there dart down, sir. They say he threw it down t’other side of the table.”
“Yes.”
“Well now sir, it was laying on the floor.”
“What?” exclaimed Fox.
“It was,” repeated Oates, “alaying on the floor. I saw it. Ax Legge, he’ll bear me out.”
“Whereabouts?” asked Alleyn sharply.
“Behind the table, sir, like they said, and well away from where they had been standing. The table was betwixt the settle and the board.”
“I see,” said Alleyn. And then the wildest hopes of Dick Oates were realized. The words with which he had soothed himself to sleep, the words that he heard most often in his dearest dreams, were spoken unmistakably by the Man from Higher Up.
“By George,” said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, “I believe you’ve got it!”
Chapter XII
Curious Behavior of Mr. Legge
i
On that first night in Ottercombe, from the time Oates left them until half-past eleven, Alleyn and Fox thrashed out the case and debated a plan of action. Alleyn was now quite certain Watchman had been murdered.
“Unless there’s a catch, Br’er Fox, and I can’t spot it if there is. The rat-hole, the dart, the newspaper, and the general evidence ought to give us ‘Who,’ but we’re still in the dark about ‘How.’ There are those bits of melted glass, now.”
“I asked old Pomeroy. He says the fireplace was cleared out the day before.”
“Well, we’ll have to see if the experts can tell us if it’s the same kind as the brandy glass. Rather, let us hope they can say definitely that it’s not the same. Oh, Lord!”
He got up, stretched himself, and leant over the window-sill. The moon was out and the sleeping roofs of Ottercombe made such patterns of white and inky black as woodcut-draughtsmen love. It was a gull’s eye view Alleyn had from the parlour window, a setting for a child’s tale of midnight wonders. A cat was sitting on one of the crooked eaves. It stared at the moon and might have been waiting for an appointment with some small night-gowned figure that would presently lean, dreaming, from the attic window. Alleyn had a liking for old fairy tales and found himself thinking of George Macdonald and At the Back of the North Wind. The Coombe was very silent in the moonlight.
“All asleep,” said Alleyn, “except us, and Mr. Robert Legge. I wish he’d come home to bed.”
“There’s a car, now,” said Fox, “up by the tunnel.”
It was evidently a small car and an old one. With a ramshackle clatter it drew nearer the pub and then the driver must have turned his engine off and coasted down to the garage. There followed the squeak of brakes. A door slammed tinnily. Someone dragged open the garage door.
“That’s him,” said Fox.
“Good,” said Alleyn. “Pop into the passage, Fox, and hale him in.”
Fox went out, leaving the door open. Alleyn heard slow steps plod across the yard to the side entrance. Fox said, “Good evening, sir. Is it Mr. Legge?”
A low mumble.
“Could you spare us a moment, sir? We’re police officers. Chief Inspector Alleyn would be glad to have a word with you.”
A pause, another mumble, and then approaching steps.
“This way, sir,” said Fox, and ushered in Mr. Robert Legge.
Alleyn saw a medium-sized man who stooped a little. He saw a large head, white hair, a heavily-lined face and a pair of callused hands. Legge, blinking in the lamplight, looked a defenceless, rather pathetic figure.
“Mr. Legge?” said Alleyn. “I’m sorry to bother you so late in the evening. Won’t you sit down?”
Fox moved forward a chair and, without uttering a word, Legge sat in it. He was under the lamp. Alleyn saw that his clothes, which had once been good, were darned and faded. Everything about the man seemed bleached and characterless. He looked nervously from Alleyn to Fox. His lips were not quite closed and showed his palpably false teeth.
“I expect,” said Alleyn, “that you have guessed why we are here.”
Legge said nothing.
“We’re making enquiries about the death of Mr. Luke Watchman.”
“Oh yes?” said Legge breathlessly.
“There are one or two points we would like to clear up and we hope you will be able to help us.”
The extraordinarily pale eyes flickered.
“Only too pleased,” murmured Legge and looked only too wretched.
“Tell me,” said Alleyn, “have you formed any theory about this affair?”
“Accident.”
“You think that’s possible?”
Legge looked at Alleyn as if he had said something profoundly shocking.
“Possible? But of course it’s possible. Dreadfully possible. Such a way to do things. They should have bought traps. The chemist should be struck off the rolls. It’s a disgrace.”
He lowered his voice and became conspiratorial.
“It was a terrible, virulent poison,” he whispered mysteriously. “A shocking thing that they should have it here. The coroner said so.”
He spoke with a very slight lisp, a mere thickening of sibilants caused, perhaps, by his false teeth.
“How do you think it got on the dart you threw into Mr. Watchman’s finger?”
Legge made a gesture that disconcerted and astonished Alleyn. He raised his hand and shook a finger at Alleyn as if he gently admonished him. If his face had not spoken of terror, he would have looked faintly waggish.
“You suspect me,” he said. “You shouldn’t.”
Alleyn was so taken aback by this old-maidish performance that for a moment he could think of nothing to say.
“You shouldn’t,” repeated Legge. “Because I didn’t.”
“The case is as wide open as the grave.”
“He’s dead,” whispered Legge, “and buried. I didn’t do it. I was the instrument. It’s not a very pleasant thing to be the instrument of death.”
“No. You should welcome any attempt to get to the bottom of the affair.”
“So I would,” muttered Legge eagerly, “if I thought they would get to the truth. But I’m not popular here. Not in some quarters. And that makes me nervous, Chief Inspector.”
“It needn’t,” said Alleyn. “But we’re being very unorthodox, Mr. Legge. May we have your full name and address?”
Fox opened his note-book. Legge suddenly stood up and, in an uncertain sort of fashion, came to attention.
“Robert Legge,” he said rapidly, “care of the Plume of Feathers, Ottercombe, South Devon. Business address: Secretary and Treasurer the Coombe Left Movement, G.P.O., Box 119, Illington.”
He sat down again.
“Thank you, sir” said Fox.
“How long have you been here, Mr. Legge?” asked Alleyn.
“Ten months. My chest is not very good. Nothing serious, you know. I needn’t be nervous on that account. But I was in very low health altogether. Boils. Even in my ears. Very unpleasant and painful. My doctor said it would be as well to move.”
“Ah, yes. From where?”
“From Liverpool. I was in Liverpool. In Flattery Street, South, Number 17. Not a very healthy part.”
“That was your permanent address?”
“Yes. I had been there for some little time. I had one or two secretaryships. For a time I was in vacuums.”
“What?”
“In vacuum cleaners. But that did not altogether agree with my chest. I got very tired, and you wouldn’t believe how rude some women can be. Positively odious! So I gave it up for stamps.”