“No more than that?”
“Ah, I know he’s had a hard time and that in the end he’s come into harbour. Let ’em rest there, Mr. Alleyn, for he’s no murderer.”
“If he’s no murderer he has nothing to fear.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t understand.”
“I think perhaps we are beginning to understand. Miss Darragh, last night I asked Mr. Legge if, as a matter of routine, he would let us take his fingerprints. He refused. Why do you suppose he did that?”
“He’s distressed and frightened. He thinks you suspect ’um.”
“Then he should welcome any procedure that is likely to prove our suspicions groundless. He should rather urge us to take his prints than burst into a fit of hysterics when we ask for them.”
A faint line appeared between Miss Darragh’s eyes. Her brows were raised and the corners of her mouth turned down. She looked like a disgruntled baby.
“I don’t say he’s not foolish,” she said. “I only say he’s innocent of murder.”
“There’s one explanation that sticks out a mile,” Alleyn said. “Do you know the usual reason for withholding fingerprints?”
“I do not.”
“The knowledge that the police already have them.”
Miss Darragh said nothing.
“Now if that should be the reason in this case,” Alleyn continued, “it is only a matter of time before we arrive at the truth. If, to put it plainly, Legge has been in prison, we shall very soon trace his record. But we may have to arrest him for manslaughter, to do it.”
“All this,” exclaimed Miss Darragh with spirit, “all this to prove he didn’t kill Watchman! All this disgrace and trouble! And who’s to pay the cost of ut? ’Twould ruin him entirely.”
“Then he would be well advised to make a clean breast and tell us of his record, before we find it out for ourselves.”
“How do you know he has a record?”
“I think,” said Alleyn, “I must tell you that I was underneath the south jetty at six o’clock this morning.”
She opened her eyes very wide indeed, stared at him, clapped her fat little hands together, and broke into a shrill cackle of laugher.
“Ah, what an old fule you’ve made of me,” said Miss Darragh.
iii
But although she took Alleyn’s disclosure in good part, she still made no admissions. She was amused and interested in his exploit of the morning, didn’t in the least resent it, and exclaimed repeatedly that it was no use trying to keep out of his clutches. But she did elude him, nevertheless, and he began to see her as a particularly slippery pippin, bobbing out of reach whenever he made a bite at it.
Alleyn was on difficult ground and knew it. The notes that he and Fox had made of the conversation on the jetty were full of gaps and, though they pointed in one direction, contained nothing conclusive.
Detective officers are circumscribed by rules which, in more than one case, are open to several interpretations. It is impossible to define exactly the degrees of pressure in questions put by the detective. Every time an important case crops up he is likely enough to take risks. If he is lucky, his departure from rule of thumb comes off, but at the end of every case, like a warning bogey, stands the figure of defending counsel, ready to pounce on any irregularity and shake it angrily before the jury.
Miss Darragh had not denied the suggestion that Legge had a police record and Alleyn decided to take it as a matter of course that such a record existed and that she knew about it.
He said: “It’s charming of you to let me down so lightly.”
“For what, me dear man?”
“Why, for lying on my back in a wet dinghy and listening to your conversation.”
“Isn’t it your job? Why should I be annoyed? I’m only afraid you’ve misinterpreted whatever you heard.”
“Then,” said Alleyn, “I shall tell you how I have interpreted it, and you will correct me if I am wrong.”
“So you say,” said Miss Darragh good-humoredly.
“So I hope. I think that Legge has been to gaol, that you know it, that you’re sorry for him, and that as long as you can avoid making a false statement you will give me as little information as possible. Is that right?”
“It’s right in so far as I’ll continue to hold me tongue.”
“Ugh!” said Alleyn with a rueful grin. “You are being firm with me, aren’t you? Well, here we go again. I think that if Mr. Legge had not been to gaol, you would laugh like mad and tell me what a fool I was.”
“You do, do you?”
“Yes. And what’s more I do seriously advise you to tell me what you know about Legge. If you won’t do that, urge Legge to come out of the thicket, and tell me himself. Tell him that we’ve always got the manslaughter charge up our sleeves. Tell him that his present line of behaviour is making us extremely suspicious.” Alleyn paused and looked earnestly at Miss Darragh.
“You said something to this effect this morning, I know,” he added. “Perhaps it’s no good. I don’t see why I should finesse. I asked Legge to let me take impressions of his fingerprints. Good prints would have been helpful but they’re not essential. He picked up the dart, it had been tested and we’ve got results. I asked him for impressions because I already suspected he had done time and I wanted to see how he’d respond. His response convinced me that I was right. We’ve asked the superintendent at Illington to send the dart to the Fingerprint Bureau. Tomorrow they will telephone the result.”
“Let ’um,” said Miss Darragh cheerfully.
“You know, you’re withholding information. I ought to be very stiff with you.”
“It’s not meself, I mind,” she said. “I’m just wishing you’d leave the poor fellow alone. You’re wasting your time and you’re going to do ’um great harm in the end. Let ’um alone.”
“We can’t,” said Alleyn. “We can’t let any of you alone.”
She began to look very distressed and beat the palms of her hands together.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” she said. “I’ll accuse no one; but look further and look nearer home.”
And when he asked her what she meant she only repeated very earnestly: “Look further and look nearer home. I’ll say no more.”
Chapter XIV
Crime and Mr. Legge
i
“Fox,” said Alleyn. “Get your hat. We’ll walk to Cary Edge Farm and call on Miss Moore. Miss Darragh says it’s a mile and a quarter over the downs from the mouth of the tunnel. She says we shall pass Cubitt painting Parish on our way. An eventful trip. Let us take it.”
Fox produced the particularly rigid felt hat that appears when his duties take him into the country. Will Pomeroy was in the front passage and Alleyn asked him if he might borrow one of a collection of old walking sticks behind the door.
“Welcome,” said Will, shortly.
“Thank you so much. To get to Cary Edge Farm we turn off to the right from the main road, don’t we?”
“Cary Edge?” repeated Will and glared at them.
“Yes,” said Alleyn. “That’s where Miss Moore lives, isn’t it?”
“She won’t be up-along this morning.”
“What’s that, sonny?” called old Abel, from the private tap-room. “Be the gentlemen looking for Miss Dessy? She’s on her way over by this time for Saturday marketing.”
Will moved his shoulders impatiently.
“You know everyone’s business, Father,” he muttered.
“Thank you, Mr. Pomeroy,” called Alleyn. “We’ll meet her on the way, perhaps.”