Chapter Sixteen

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(1)

IT was on the Friday evening that Macdonald and Reeves visited The Cow with the Crumpled Horn, the pub where Colonel Farrington played darts and took pride in his status as a member of the Darts Club committee. It was the matter of the unidentified fingerprints in Mrs. Farrington’s bedroom which took the C.I.D. men to the pub. To be faced with unknown fingerprints in a city like London does not look a very hopeful clue for the police, but Macdonald had found from long experience that many such clues could be elucidated by a consideration of probabilities. In the case of a very wealthy establishment, where jewels of great value were known to be housed, suspicion played over the known jewel thieves, the expert cracksman, whose methods were intensively studied by the Yard men, so that quite often the thief left some sign or indication in the course of the methods he used. A less wealthy establishment, of the type of Windermere House, was not likely to attract the star cracksman. If a thief had entered there, it was likely to be some smaller operator who worked on the “information received” basis and who watched the house for an opportunity to make an unseen entrance through an unfastened window or door. While Macdonald was far from convinced that a theft of this kind had occurred at Windermere House, he was faced with certain items of factual evidence which could not be disregarded: some jewellery was missing; unidentified fingerprints had been found; a man had been seen watching the house on the Monday evening. It was obvious that these facts had got to be accounted for before any further progress could be made.

The local Divisional Police had already reported to the C.I.D. that Colonel Farrington was a well-known character at The Cow with the Crumpled Horn and was not only respected but held in affection by the habitues there. His natural uneverything was very quiet of an evening. A lot of these casual burglaries follow if a dishonest chap gets an idea it’s all going to be easy, and Bob’s their uncle.”

It was eight o’clock when Macdonald entered the pub, got a pint of beer at the bar, and settled down with a book in a quiet corner. Five minutes later Reeves came in, looking like a garage mechanic to the life, wearing a bulging waterproof well stained with oil and grease. Reeves stayed at the bar counter, joining in the conversation with a natural zest which made him immediately a unit in a crowd of working men. It was some half hour later that he picked up a dart from the tray where they lay and threw it at the board with an easy practised skill whose accuracy caused heads to turn and a murmur of approbation to arise. Unconcernedly, Reeves began to throw the other darts to form a pattern round his original bull’s-eye, and Macdonald watched with some amusement. It was beautiful dart throwing, easy and accurate, but Reeves fumbled his final throw and swore lustily. “I don’t like ’em,” he said disgustedly, looking with disapproval at the darts on the tray; “not balanced to my liking. Now, take these---had ’em for years. Lovely darts, these are.”

Inevitably the darts experts gathered round him to examine the two darts Reeves had taken from his pocket, to weigh them and throw them. Some matches followed, and eventually the Darts Club team played an exhibition match, and Reeves admitted handsomely that he himself was no class in comparison with the experts. It was at this stage in the evening’s proceedings that Colonel Farrington’s name was mentioned. They all spoke of him with respect and sympathy, and the matter of subscribing for a wreath for Mrs. Farrington’s funeral was mooted. Macdonald listened with particular interest to this. He wanted to know how far and fast news had travelled.

“There’s been a bit o’ trouble, I hear,” ventured one of the darts team. “The doctor who attended the old lady got killed in a motor smash, and the other doctor wouldn’t sign the certificate.”

“Silly lot o’ fuss it seems to me, making trouble for folks when they got enough already,” put in another. “She’s been ailing for years, his good lady had. Heart. You never knows with heart cases.”

“That’s right. Just pops off when you’re least expecting it,” said another voice. “That was a shocking smash the doctor had in his car. Rammed the lamp standard when he was travelling at speed. I saw the car before they moved it. Can’t think how he came to do it, and nobody seems to know, either.”

“I reckon a pedestrian ran across the road the way some fools do and the old chap got in a flummox avoiding ’im,” said the original speaker. “No one really saw what happened, and they said his car was looted before the police arrived. Beats me how any chap can thieve over a corpse, turns me sick to think of it.”

“What about these blokes who go cracking old women over the head for the sake of a few quid?” asked another. “This ’ere robbery with violence is something shocking. I reckon it’s these ’ere army deserters do a lot of it, and what’s the answer to that one, Gawd alone knows.”

“The police ought to do something.” This inevitable comment came from an old man by the counter. “An’ talkin’ of police, somebody said the Colonel’s house was burgled the same night Mrs. Farrington died. Anybody seen the Colonel since Monday?”

“Of course not. He’s not been in, not likely,” said the member of the darts team. “And that reminds me. About that debate we was a-goin’ to have, I reckon we’d better wash that out. The Colonel won’t want to be bothered with them sorts of things just now.”

“Well, I don’t know. Might take his mind orf it all,” said another. “Very set on it, ’e was. ’E’s no use for pacifism, no use at all, and I’m not saying he’s not right.”

“Oh, come orf it, Charlie, we don’t want to start on that now,” said the darts expert; “but I reckon we’d better let the Colonel know we’re not expecting ’im to attend. Where’s Bill? Wasn’t ’e fixing it up? They thought of ’aving it in the Working Men’s Club.”

“Bill ain’t been in tonight, but I saw ’im yesterday,” replied Charlie. “Bill ’adn’t seen the Colonel; that was along of Mrs. Farrington’s bein’ took bad, I reckon. And ’oo was it said there’d been a burglary there?”

“I did. The roadman saw some Yard men at the ’ouse, and they’d been an’ asking if anybody’d been seen ’angin’ around outside on the Monday evening. Must be something in it.”

“Blimy, I don’t like the sound of that,” rejoined the other. “Maybe it was the burglar frightened the old lady and she had a heart attack along of it. That’s a shocking thing, that is. Next door to murder, I reckon.”

“What time was it the C.I.D. blokes was askin’ about?” inquired Charlie.

“All through the evening and up till two o’clock, I was told,” was the reply. “Must be something fishy somewhere. They don’t turn the C.I.D. on to a job without good reason. Now I reckon someone ought to drop the Colonel a line with our respects and regrets. Mr. Laver ain’t in tonight. He’d be the one to do it; these lawyers write something beautiful when they want.”

“I reckon the Colonel would as soon have a line from one of us, writing or no writing,” suggested another. “Lawyers’ letters won’t be no treat to him. What about you doing it, Charlie? Just drop a line with our respects and sympathy for ’im in ’is trouble. Nothing flowery, mind, and we can all sign it tomorrow. ’Ow about it?”

There was a general murmur of agreement, and after a moment Macdonald got up, put his book in his pocket, and slipped out unnoticed. A few minutes later he was joined by Reeves.

“That’s what I call a very useful evening,” said Reeves, and Macdonald said:

“What about those darts you’ve got in your pocket? About one to each pocket, I made it.”

“More or less,” said Reeves cheerfully. “I reckon I’ve got a print from all the darts players present, and if they’re not relevant they’ll all come out in the wash, as the saying is. I’ll leave Bill to you.”

“Yes,” agreed Macdonald. “I think I shall get Baines to knock up the landlord for me just after closing time. Baines makes his point here at ten o’clock.”

“D’you want me again?” asked Reeves.

“No, you can go back and get your darts examined,” said Macdonald, “and if you take my advice, you’ll leave that raincoat of yours at the Yard. Your wife won’t thank you for taking it home. It’s as high as Haman.”

“Think I’d take it home?” asked Reeves indignantly. “Not much. My Jane’d send it to the cleaners and a lot of good it’d be to me then. Honest dirt’s very confidence-making.”

(2)

It was shortly after closing time that Macdonald was admitted again to The Cow with the Crumpled Horn, after the patrolling constable had knocked up Mr. Waiting, the licensee.

“I’m sorry to bother you, landlord,” said Macdonald. “I expect you are quite ready for bed, but you may save us a lot of trouble---and other people, too, for that matter---if you’ll answer some questions now.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” rejoined Mr. Waiting. “I’ve always been on good terms with the police and never had any trouble or complaints.”

“So I’ve heard,” rejoined Macdonald as they went into the landlord’s parlour and Mr. Waiting closed the door firmly.

“Well, you heard those chaps talking about the inquiries at Colonel Farrington’s house,” went on Macdonald. “I’ve come to you to ask a bit about the men’s characters, if you’re willing to give me a line on them. I mean the regular crowd---the darts players. They’ve formed a club, I gather.”

“That’s right, sir, and I’m willing to tell you all I know about them, and welcome. A very decent lot of men they are, and very particular about their club. Now, this evening there was the six of ’em---regular as clockwork they come in of a Friday. Charlie Evans, he’s a railway man, on the old L.M.S. at the Chalk Farm depot. Bob Higgins, he’s a lorry driver for Pattersons. Jack Harrison’s a bus driver. Will Robinson, he’s got a business of his own, hardware and that. Fred Clark’s a mechanic in the London Transport garage, and Dick Brown’s a conductor on the Tube. All very decent chaps. Clark’s a Communist, but not one of the agitators. You’ll not find much wrong in that lot, sir.”

“Right. Who’s this chap Bill they were talking about?”

“Bill? Oh, that’d be Bill Preston. He’s an old chap. He was a house painter, but he’s not too good on ladders these days and he does odd jobs on his own. Any bit of inside painting, or fixing a window sash or other small repairs. A very respectable kindly old chap. Lost his wife not so long ago, and the Colonel was uncommonly kind to him. I’ve seen them digging together on the Colonel’s allotment. ‘He misses his wife and a bit of company’s good for him,’ sez the Colonel to me.”

“Have you any idea if any of these chaps has ever done any odd jobs at the Colonel’s house?”

The landlord scratched his head, looking rather worried. “I won’t pretend I don’t see what you’re getting at, sir, seeing what was said in the bar, but if Bill Preston did some inside jobs for the Colonel---and I’m not saying he did, mark you---he’d never have touched aught that didn’t belong to him. I’ll lay all I’ve got that Bill is honest. Never heard a word against him all the years I’ve known him.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions, landlord. I only asked if he’d ever done any inside job for the Colonel. Now, can you tell me this. Is he a talker? Would he have been likely to tell anybody else that Mrs. Farrington had some valuable jewellery, for instance?”

“I shouldn’t have thought so, sir. Bill’s a quiet old chap, and as for jewellery, I don’t think he’d know diamonds from cut glass. Not in his line at all. Now, a good job of cabinet-making would interest him. He knows that when he sees it---but he’s no chatterbox.”

The landlord scratched his grizzled head thoughtfully. “If you’re agreeable, I could ask my missis to come in and tell you about Bill Preston, sir,” he said. “She knows him better than I do, always has him in to do small repairs and odd painting jobs and suchlike.”

“I should be very glad if you would,” rejoined Macdonald. “She’ll probably be able to tell me just what I want to know.”

A moment or so later Mrs. Waiting came into the parlour. She was a massive body, heavily corseted, and her black satin blouse with its lace collar and choker necklace of large pearls were in the best tradition of the respectable publican’s wife. Her husband explained what Macdonald wanted to know, and she replied without hesitation. “Old Preston’s as trustworthy a fellow as I’ve ever met,” she declared. “I always say he’s useful to me because I can trust him. He knows this house, and I just tell him what I want done and let him get on with it without ever thinking of having to keep an eye on him. He’s honest all right, you take it from me.”

On the subject of Bill Preston’s liability to gossip, she was equally emphatic. “Keeps himself to himself and never forgets himself, neither,” she said. “In a licensed house you can’t do with gossips. Not that we’ve anything to hide, but there’s big takings some days and the locking up’s important. We know there’s plenty of these gangs about, ready to hold up anybody if they think they can get away with it, and I wouldn’t have nobody doing odd jobs in this house if I couldn’t trust their tongues as well as their fingers.”

“Well, that’s clear enough,” said Macdonald. “I’ll take your word for it about the man’s character, because I don’t think you’re likely to be mistaken there. Now, bearing in mind that I have said I’ll take your word for it, Mrs. Waiting, can you tell me this? Was Preston ever employed by Colonel Farrington to do any odd jobs?”

“Yes, he was,” she replied without hesitation. “The shed on the Colonel’s allotment started it. You’ve got to have somewhere to keep your gardening tools and that, and the Borough’s particular about what’s put up. Anyway, Preston put up the Colonel’s shed, and just lately there was some question about him doing some work on the window catches at Windermere House. It was the Colonel himself who mentioned it to me. Said he wanted to have the new safety catches put on before he and Mrs. Farrington took their holidays. I believe Preston was going to the house to see about it someday quite soon, but I’m not sure if he’d started on the job or not.”

“Thanks very much. That’s just what I wanted to know,” replied Macdonald. “I shall have to see Preston sometime, so can you tell me where he lives?”

“He lives just over in Camden Town somewhere, but I can’t tell you his address,” replied Mrs. Waiting. “It seems funny, maybe, having known him for years, but I know he’s sure to come in sometime during the week, and if I want him I just wait until I see him.”

“Has he been here this week?” asked Macdonald, and the landlord put in:

“Yes. He was in one evening. Tuesday or Wednesday, it was. I know we’d just heard of Mrs. Farrington’s death, and Preston was quite upset. Now I come to think of it, I believe he was talking about going up to see his brother. He was Lancanshire born, and his folks live up north.”

“He’s been talking about going to see his brother for months,” said Mrs. Waiting. “I’ll believe he’s gone when I hear he’s really been seen off on the train. Anyone might think it was like going to the North Pole, the fuss he makes about going a journey. But then he’s an old chap now, and set in his ways. He’s lived in Camden Town for all of thirty years, and London’s home to him, same’s it is to us.”

The landlord spoke again, not sounding very happy: “Begging your pardon, sir, but can we get this clear? There’s been a theft of some valuables from the Colonel’s house. Is that right?”

Macdonald nodded. “Some valuables are missing,” he said, “and nobody in the house knows anything about them. We found some fingerprints in Mrs. Farrington’s bedroom that were not made by anybody in the house, and we want to trace them.”

“And if so be you find they’re Bill Preston’s, will you reckon he was the thief, sir?”

“Not unless we get further evidence. But if he was in the house recently, we want to know all about the time he was there and what he was doing. You have been straight with me, landlord, and told me all that you know about Preston, so I am being straight with you, but I advise you not to repeat anything I’ve been telling you. You have enough common sense to know that an innocent man’s got nothing to fear from the police.”

“I believe you there, sir, and I’m quite sure Bill Preston’s not done anything he oughtn’t. But I’m thinking back to what some of the chaps in the bar said about police inquiries. Is it right you was asking about anybody seen waiting around outside Windermere House on Monday evening?”

“Yes. We’ve had reports of a man who was seen standing outside the house between nine and half-past---an old chap, the witnesses agree.”

“Well, maybe we can help you there, sir. That might have been Preston. You heard some of the fellows talking about this debate they’d been planning---pacifism or summat. Well, the Colonel wasn’t in on Monday evening, of course, and there’s a chance Preston might’ve walked round to Windermere House on the off-chance of seeing the Colonel. He wouldn’t have gone to the front door or anything of that kind, wouldn’t Bill, but I do believe the Colonel does sometimes go out for a walk after the nine o’clock news, and Bill might’ve thought there was a chance of seeing him to get things fixed up. And if that’s so, sir, then I’ll make bold to say it was next door to having a policeman on the doorstep, because Bill he’d’ve noticed if there was anyone else hanging around.”

“Then the obvious thing for me to do is to find Preston and ask him if he did see anything of the kind,” rejoined Macdonald equably, and the landlord nodded.

“That’s it, sir, but you take it from me that you won’t find anything questionable about Bill Preston’s dealings. If ever a chap was straight, it’s Bill.”

“That’s right,” agreed Mrs. Waiting.