Trial and Error Page 15

  The young man was so taken aback that he answered.

  “I . . . I was at home.”

  “Can you prove that?” asked Mr Todhunter earnestly-

  “I suppose so,” growled the other. “My wife was there.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No. The maid was out. We got the supper ourselves.”

  “Did you sit in the garden afterwards or in any place where other people might have seen you?”

  “No, we didn’t; we sat indoors. Look here, what the hell are you getting at? You talk almost as if I might be under suspicion myself.”

  “Everyone will be under suspicion, you young fool,” snapped Mr Todhunter, his patience giving way before strained nerves. “Don’t you realise that? You as much as anyone else—more, if your recent behaviour comes out. I don’t suppose I was the only person who saw you at the Chelsea flower show, you know.”

  “The . . . Chelsea flower show?” stammered young Mr Palmer.

  “Yes. Still, I suppose your alibi is as good as anyone else’s, so I’ll give you back your revolver. But one word of advice, young man. Don’t talk to the police as you’ve spoken to me. It won’t do you any good to put their backs up for nothing. Well, Mrs Farroway, I don’t think I need stay any longer. If there’s anything I can do for you, of course I shall expect you to call on me. And this young man here is perfectly right in the line he suggested to you. Just make sure, while you have him to yourself, that he too knows nothing, has seen nothing and can’t remember anything.”

  And Mr Todhunter, having accomplished the object of his visit, handed the wrong revolver back to a young man who, subdued now as well as quelled, took it without hesitation as his own and did not even stop to examine it.

  Not a little pleased with himself, Mr Todhunter made an excellent exit.

  It was a pity, in a way, that Mrs Farroway should know the truth, as she undoubtedly did, but Mr Todhunter was convinced that it was safe with her.

  2

  Murder changes a man’s mentality. He is a different being after the act from what he was before. It may be this fact that has tripped up so many murderers: they could not foresee into what kind of person they would change. Their whole trends of thought and feeling have undergone a revulsion, and for a time they are bewildered.

  Mr Todhunter did not consider that he had committed murder; indeed, in his secret mind he knew very well that he had not. For that matter nobody calls the official executioner a murderer. Yet although for weeks Mr Todhunter had been making himself familiar with the idea, although he had gone over in his mind every detail, not once but a hundred times, till one would have said that the actual sight of real blood could add nothing to what his imagination had already depicted, yet now that the deed was a thing of the past he found himself almost more upset than before.

  The confidence which he had shown in the flat with Mrs Farroway, the elation, even, with which he had taken his leave after the exchange of revolvers, rapidly disappeared. Mr Todhunter’s mind was a-flutter. He worried deeply and unceasingly. The fact of death and the sight of the dead woman, even the knowledge that he had determined to mete that death out to her, had unhinged the system of his thoughts.

  Yet to all appearances Mr Todhunter had no need to worry. The police never came near him. Mr Todhunter could not bring himself to read the newspapers, not even the accounts of the case in his own sober Times: anything to do with it now made him feel physically sick; yet it was obvious that the police were at a loss. Even though he did no more than glance reluctantly at the headlines, Mr Todhunter could gather that. There was no sign of an arrest of any kind, and least of all his own. Mr Todhunter began to feel sure he would die in his bed yet.

  It seemed to him, too, that this would happen very soon. The strain and the insomnia from which he now constantly suffered were wearing him down. A week after the death Mr Todhunter looked as if he were fifteen years older.

  It was not conscience. Mr Todhunter’s conscience was perfectly clear. It was just sheer worry. Mr Todhunter had always been inclined to fuss over trifles; now he had something worth fussing over, and he did it full justice. Daily there increased in him a kind of semihysterical restlessness. He wanted to do something. He felt he ought to do something. But what? That he did not know.

  He toyed with the idea of confessing. But what was the point? There was nothing to be gained by it. Besides, Mr Todhunter now quite violently did not want to go to prison. Before, he had really not cared very much whether he were caught or not. The idea of being imprisoned had seemed sardonically amusing to him, for of course he would be dead long before the date of execution came round. He would be able to observe his own trial for murder with complete detachment—a situation probably unique. He had only decided against it in the interests of the family.

  But now all that was changed. He did not want to go to prison; he did not want to be tried; he did not want to be bothered at all. He wanted, if anything, to escape. Life still had its hold on him, and what was left of it he wanted to enjoy. He was not enjoying it at present, that was certain. He could not read, he could not play, even Bach had lost his spell. He felt in a kind of spiritual vice that was crushing the vitality out of him. He could remember nothing like the sensation since his first few miserable days at a preparatory school when he had first learned just how bleak life can be.

  From all this Mr Todhunter longed to escape. He felt he ought not to go, but he felt, too, that he could bear the strain no longer.

  One day he suddenly took a cab to the West End and booked a passage on a steamship cruising half round the world. The cruise was scheduled to last nearly four months, and Mr Todhunter knew that he would not come back from it alive. He was rather glad. It seemed to him a pleasant thing to die in luxury and comfort and be consigned to the warm waters of some tropical sea.

  3

  It was as if Mr Todhunter had been a bull confined in a tiny field surrounded by high hedges over which he could not see. While he was there he wandered round and round in circles, bellowing mournfully; but now that he had, so to speak, charged through the hedge and was in the spacious pastures beyond, life appeared a very different proposition. In other words, having taken his decision, Mr Todhunter found himself his own man again.

  With all the old methodical care he made his preparations. The house in Richmond was to be kept in running order, with Mrs Greenhill as dominant housekeeper. It had been left in his will to two elderly and impoverished female cousins, and these Mr Todhunter thoughtfully installed in situ so that there should be no upheaval and bother for them in his absence. One or two items were added to his will. A visit was paid to his doctor, who annoyed Mr Todhunter as much as ever by persistently congratulating him on his approaching demise, the date of which, however, he was unable to name with any more accuracy than before, since it appeared that Mr Todhunter’s aneurism had stood up to all this strain with astonishing fortitude and was in no worse condition than it had been four months before.

  And lastly, having packed his bags and left nothing to chance, Mr Todhunter wrote out a careful account of the way in which he had murdered Miss Jean Norwood, added by way of proof that Miss Norwood’s bracelet was in a certain locked drawer of the chest of drawers in his bedroom with the revolver, sealed up the document in an imposingly large envelope and deposited it with his solicitor to be handed over to Scotland Yard after his death.

  This, Mr Todhunter considered, would round off the affair nicely. He had heard nothing from any of the Farroway family since his visit to Maida Vale and sincerely trusted that he never would. He had done what he could. The Farroways could now work out their own salvation for themselves.

  In only one item did Mr Todhunter deviate from this decision; and the incident is perhaps worth recording as showing the new resolution which, after his black week, seemed to have descended upon him.

  One day quite by chance he met Mr Budd, the manager of the Princess. It was, as a matter of fact, on the pavement in Cockspur Street jus
t outside the offices of the shipping company which Mr Todhunter had been visiting in order to ask information upon a certain small point about which he could quite well have telephoned.

  Mr Budd, looking bluer than ever about the jowls, recognised him at once, and greeted him with a degree of warmth which surprised Mr Todhunter. As a matter of fact it was just before closing time and Mr Budd, whose finances were temporarily low, was hoping to be asked to have the quick one for which there was just time—but not time for a return one.

  Mr Todhunter did not particularly want to see Mr Budd or anyone who could remind him of Miss Norwood, but he was unable to cope with the exuberance which Mr Budd brought to his welcoming. Mr Budd, in fact, worked his hardest, but his luck was out. The vital five minutes passed, and there they were, still on the pavement. Resigning himself, Mr Budd invited Mr Todhunter into the Greenroom Club, and Mr Todhunter, unable to think up an excuse quickly enough, and indeed not sure whether he wanted one, suffered himself to be led. On such a hair hung the whole of Felicity Farroway’s future.

  For once inside, and Mr Budd having got off his chest his saga of woe (for of course the Princess was closed and Mr Budd with every expectation of being out of a job as soon as the lease had been transferred), the talk somehow veered round to a play which Mr Budd had just been reading and which, he averred, was a Pipper, a Peach and a Sure Thing,

  “She told me to bung it back,” recounted Mr Budd, “but I didn’t. I just can’t bear to let it go.”

  Mr Todhunter, not much interested, asked politely for explanations. From these he gathered that it had been one of Mr Budd’s many tasks to read the dozens of plays showered by enthusiastic amateur playwrights upon Miss Norwood. Anything which he considered good enough he passed on to her to read, and the proportion amounted to something under one per cent.

  “Hopeless!” pronounced Mr Budd with emphasis. “Ninety-nine out of a hundred of ’em. Just lousy. You’d think the poor goofs had never been inside a theatre in their lives.”

  But this particular play, it appeared, was the exception. It was by an unknown writer, a first play, and according to Mr Budd it would make a sensation—if it was ever put on.

  “But there you are. I told you once we were sheep in this business, didn’t I? Mr X.Y.Z. makes a success of a play; every manager in London’s on his doorstep next morning asking for another. Miss A.B.C.’s never had a play produced in her life—and no manager in London’s going to take the risk. . . But that isn’t why she turned it down. She said it wasn’t good enough, but that wasn’t the reason either. She knew as well as I did that it’s a pipper. No, she turned it down because she couldn’t play the part. It’s a young girl for one thing, and it’d need a darned good actress to carry it off for another. I will say that for Jean, she knew her limitations. Why . . .”

  Mr Todhunter sat suddenly forward in his chair, looking like a great bird of ill omen about to swoop.

  “You say this is a good play?” he interrupted.

  “I do,” agreed Mr Budd, a little startled.

  “Would the part of the young girl suit Felicity Farroway?”

  “Feli—Oh yes, I remember the kid. Mr Todhunter,” said Mr Budd with admiration, “you’ve just about pit it. She could play any other actress in London off the stage in that part, properly produced. Yes, she’s the girl for it. Now however did you think that one up?”

  “I remember you telling me that she was a good actress.”

  “That’s right. I remember now. You’re a friend of the old man’s. Poor old chap, just about knocked him up, this . . .”

  “How much would it cost to put this play on with Miss Farroway in the leading part?”

  Mr Budd looked doubtful. “It could be done for three thousand, easy. But look here, I’m not advising you, you know. It’s a hell of a risk. Unknown actress, unknown playwright; you’d have everything against you. Mind you, if the public could be got in for a start you might have a chance, but—And who would you get to produce it? I should say Dane’s the man, but . . . I say, you wouldn’t be wanting a manager, would you?” asked Mr Budd, brightening.

  “I’m going abroad in three days,” said Mr Todhunter slowly. “I can’t do anything in the matter myself. Would you be willing to undertake the full responsibility—settle with the author (and the contract must be approved by the Society of Authors, I stipulate that), engage Miss Farroway and a cast, choose a producer or whoever is necessary—provided I deposit a cheque for three thousand with you before I sail?”

  “But you don’t know me,” almost wept Mr Budd. “You can’t do a thing like that. I might hop off with the money, I might... you’re barmy.”

  “Will you?” cackled Mr Todhunter.

  “My bones and brisket,” shouted Mr Budd, “you can bet I will. And if I don’t make a fortune for you, it won’t be my fault. Why . . . oh hell. Boy!”

  4

  Three days later Mr Todhunter sailed in the SS Anchusa. There had been no further developments in the Norwood case. The newspapers were openly accusing the police of being baffled, and the police seemed to be admitting that the newspapers were not far wrong. Mr Todhunter felt that he was out of the nightmare at last.

  But that was where Mr Todhunter was immensely mistaken.

  It was, in point of fact, in Tokyo that Mr Todhunter learned that Vincent Palmer had been arrested, nearly five weeks earlier, for the murder of Jean Norwood.

  PART III

  Detective

  THE TOO-PERFECT MURDER CASE

  CHAPTER X

  Mr Todhunter arrived back in England in late November, having travelled from Japan with all speed, just a week before the trial of Vincent Palmer was scheduled to open. This he learned from the English newspaper which he bought at Calais before embarking. It did not seem to him that an hour or two’s further delay could matter very much, and he therefore drove from Victoria to Richmond to deposit his luggage and greet his cousins and Mrs Greenhill before driving to Scotland Yard.

  It was about half past four when Mr Todhunter arrived, as he imagined, at the end of his journey, prepared for arrest and subsequent retirement from the world. He felt a little upset, but not at all panic-stricken. As for his aneurism, this seemed to be still in much the same state as when it had left England; certainly Mr Todhunter had taken all possible care of it during his tour, refrained from giving it any undue strain and sedulously withheld from it all alcohol. The voyage had done him good too. His mind was at rest now, and he had had no difficulty in keeping Miss Norwood out of it, except occasionally in dreams. The news of young Palmer’s arrest had distressed him considerably, and he blamed himself for having gone abroad at all without foreseeing some such blunder on the part of the authorities; but of course that would all be put right now. If the red tape were not too strong, Palmer should be at liberty in time for dinner.

  “I want,” mumbled Mr Todhunter to the large policeman at the door of the Scotland Yard building, “to see the officer in charge of the Norwood case.”

  “That’ll be Chief Inspector Moresby,” replied the policeman in a friendly way. “Just fill in this form, sir, and state the business you wish to see him about.”

  Mr Todhunter, impressed by the friendliness, laid his shapeless hat on the table and duly filled in his form. The nature of the business on which Chief Inspector Moresby was to be troubled he stated as “important information concerning the death of Miss Jean Norwood.”

  The large policeman then invited Mr Todhunter to take a seat and withdrew.

  Ten minutes later he informed Mr Todhunter that Chief Inspector Moresby would see him in a few minutes.

  Half an hour later, in reply to a query of Mr Todhunter’s, the policeman opined that Chief Inspector Moresby was a very busy man.

  Twenty minutes after that Mr Todhunter was actually ushered into Chief Inspector Moresby’s presence.

  There rose to greet him from behind a severe-looking desk a burly man with a drooping walrus moustache, who shook Mr Todhunter’s hand with
great geniality, invited him to be seated and enquired what he could do for him.

  “You’re in charge of the—er—the Norwood case?” asked Mr Todhunter with care. He was not going to be put off, after all that waiting, with anyone less than the right man.

  “I am, sir,” agreed the chief inspector affably.

  Mr Todhunter rubbed the top of his head. He had a hatred of the dramatic, but it seemed difficult to break his momentous news without being slightly dramatic.

  “I—um—have been out of England recently. It was only a few weeks ago—in Japan, as a matter of fact—that I learned of Mr Palmer’s arrest. It was—er—a great shock to me,” mumbled Mr Todhunter.

  “Yes sir,” prompted the chief inspector with patience. “And why was Mr Palmer’s arrest a great shock to you?”

  “Why, because . . . that is, because . . . well, you see,” floundered Mr Todhunter, not at all dramatically, “it was I who shot Miss Norwood.”

  The chief inspector looked at Mr Todhunter, and Mr Todhunter looked at the chief inspector. Rather to Mr Todhunter’s surprise the other did not make an instant dive for handcuffs and clap them on the bony wrists which Mr Todhunter was already almost holding ready for them. Instead he said:

  “Well, well. So you shot Miss Norwood, sir? Dear me, dear me.” He shook his head as if to intimate that no doubt boys will be boys, but grown men should behave as grown men.

  “Er—yes,” said Mr Todhunter, a little puzzled. The chief inspector did not seem at all shocked. He did not seem even upset, although the whole of his case against Vincent Palmer must be clattering round his ears. He merely continued to shake his head in a slightly reproving way and pull at one end of his moustache.

  “I want to make a statement,” said Mr Todhunter.

  “Yes sir, of course,” soothed the chief inspector. “That is, you’re quite sure you do?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” said Mr Todhunter, surprised.