“Well now, Mrs. Rush, I just want a word with your husband here, and I hope I’m not disturbing you coming in like this, but to tell you the truth I’m right down sick of that room upstairs, and I thought I’d like to make your acquaintance.”
He crossed to the foot of the bed and turned to Rush.
“There’s a matter that came up just now, and I’d like to know what you’ve got to say about it. I’ve been told that you and Mr. Craddock had words on Tuesday afternoon-something about his papers having been disturbed.”
“Who said so?” said Rush with a growl.
“Someone who heard what passed. Come, sergeant, tell me about it yourself if you don’t want me to take someone else’s story.”
“Albert-” said Mrs. Rush in a pleading voice.
“There’s nothing to tell!” said Rush angrily. “Mr. Ross, he forgot himself. Thirty years I been in this job, and the first time anyone ever said or thought but what I did my duty! Mr. Ross, he forgot himself, and now that he’s dead I’ve no wish to bring it up.”
There was a rough dignity about his squared shoulders and the set of his head. “If he isn’t an innocent man, he’s a very good actor,” thought the Inspector. He said,
“That does you credit. But I’ve got my duty too, you know, and I’ll have to ask you what took place between you.”
Mrs. Rush looked up from her knitting.
“Now don’t you be so disobliging, Father.”
Rush scowled at her. A completely meaningless mannerism as far as she was concerned, it having quite ceased to intimidate her after the first month of their marriage.
“A lot of busybodying going on over this business, it seems to me.” The Inspector was getting the scowl now. “First and last of it was, Mr. Ross called me into his room and said someone had been mucking about with his papers. Then he forgot himself and said it was me-said there was papers missing, and something about blackmail. And I told him he’d forgot himself and I come away.”
“Why should he think it was you? You haven’t got a key to the flat, have you? Why didn’t he suspect Peterson?”
“No, I haven’t got a key-and if I had a hundred I wouldn’t touch his papers. But Sunday Peterson had the day off and I had his key. And seems Mr. Ross forgot his bunch of keys that day-left them lying on his table. He’s uncommon careless with them. And I told him straight I saw them, and I never touched them nor I never touched his papers, and if anyone says so, alive or dead, he’s a liar!”
“Did he threaten you with dismissal?” said the Inspector.
Rush glared at him.
“No, he didn’t.”
“Sure of that?”
“What are you getting at?”
The Inspector was watching him closely.
“When a murder has taken place, anyone who has had a serious quarrel with the murdered man is bound to come under suspicion.”
A deep flush ran up to the roots of Rush’s thick grey hair. He breathed heavily. Then he said,
“You’re suspecting me?”
Mrs. Rush said, “Oh, sir!” She let her knitting fall and clasped her hands. “Oh, sir! Oh, Albert! Oh, sir-he never did! Oh, Albert-you’ve got to tell him now. It’s not right-not if they’re going to think it’s you. And if he’s innocent it won’t hurt him, and if he’s done it it’s not for us to stand in the way of the law-”
“Here,” said Rush, “you’re upsetting her-that’s what you’re doing. And I won’t have it! Come into the kitchen!”
Mrs. Rush began to tremble very much.
“Not a step!” she said. “Albert, you come right over here and let me get a hold of you!”
“All right, all right-nothing to put yourself about like that, my girl.”
She leaned back against her pillows.
“Give him the case, Albert,” she said.
“Have it your own way,” said Rush.
He opened a drawer, took out a silver cigarette-case, and landed it to the Inspector.
“I was going to give it back to him on the quiet,” he said. “Found it laying by the side of the stairs Wednesday morning when I come to do the hall. Didn’t think anything about it at first, no more than what he’d dropped it, and I put it away to give it back to him or to Miss Mavis.”
The Inspector looked at the case-an ordinary engine-turned affair with a medallion for initials. The initials were R. F. He pressed the catch and the case fell open on his palm. There were cigarettes on one side, but on the other side there was a photograph of Miss Mavis Grey.
The Inspector pursed his lips as if he were going to whistle. Then he said,
“And who were you going to give it back to?”
The porter and his wife spoke together. Rush said, “Mr. Bobby Foster,” and Mrs. Rush said, “Miss Mavis’s young man.”
Chapter XXIV
About twenty minutes later the Inspector hung up the receiver and faced Detective Abbott across the writing-table.
“Inquest tomorrow at two-thirty. We’ll have ’em all there, and perhaps it’ll put the wind up some of ’em. But we shall have to ask for an adjournment unless we get a bit of luck.”
“Like the murderer walking in and saying ‘Please, sir, I did it.’ ”
The Inspector frowned.
“Lintott’s gone to check up on Mr. Foster. I want his fingerprints. If they correspond with the lot we couldn’t account for on the banisters and on this door, then it looks pretty black against him.”
“What did the Ducks and Drakes say?”
“Oh, he was round there on the Tuesday night, but he was so drunk they wouldn’t let him in. Tried three times-asked for Miss Grey and said he’d got to see her. The porter says Mr. Renshaw put him into a taxi and sent him home. Well, suppose he got home and got drinking some more, and then came round here to have it out with Mr. Craddock-I don’t mind telling you it begins to look like that to me. I’ve told Lintott to find out at his rooms when he came in, and whether anyone heard him go out again-” He broke off because the sitting-room door was pushed open and Peter Renshaw came in.
“Am I interrupting?” he said.
“As a matter of fact I wanted to see you, Mr. Renshaw. I am informed that you met Mr. Foster-Mr. Bobby Foster-as you came out of the Ducks and Drakes on Tuesday night, and that after some conversation you got him into a taxi and sent him home.”
“All correct.”
“Well now, Mr. Renshaw, I have an account of that conversation from the porter at the Ducks and Drakes. He says Mr. Foster had been backwards and forwards asking for Miss Mavis Grey and wanting to know whether she was there with Mr. Craddock.” The Inspector made a significant pause, and then asked, “Was Mr. Foster drunk?”
“It depends on what you call drunk. He was walking and talking, but I didn’t take much notice of what he said.”
“Ah, but the porter did. He says Mr. Foster used threatening language-says he offered to knock Mr. Craddock’s head off and kick it in the gutter-says he used the expression that shooting was too good for him. How’s that, Mr. Renshaw?”
Peter groaned inwardly. Bobby would go and say things like that about a man who was going to get himself murdered. Gosh-what a mess! Aloud he said,
“Bobby is a most awful ass, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“I take it that he did say those things then?”
“Look here,” said Peter, “I don’t know what put you on to Bobby Foster, but it’s damned nonsense your suspecting him. He was annoyed because his girl had gone out with another fellow, he’d had-well-one or two over the eight, and he was shooting off his face. If you’re really going to murder someone you don’t go and have a shouting match about it on the steps of a popular night-club with the porter hanging out both ears to listen-well, it’s absurd, isn’t it?”