IN WHICH GENERAL BUNKER GETS HIMSELF INTO A PICKLE, AND
SUPERINTENDENT WILSON MAKES A LITTLE TRIP TO FRANCE AND FINDS A
CHARMING YOUNG LADY
The Special Branch of Scotland Yard was not destined so easily to solve
the Radlett mystery, or to catch the elusive Rosenbaum. Wilson and
those who accompanied him to General Bunker's room that morning were to
remember that interview long afterwards and extract a hearty laugh from
the remembrance. For Bunker's crypto-Jew turned out to be a Scotsman
of irreproachable antecedents, his Bolshevik desperado a respectable
merchant of sound Conservative principles and active in the South
Streatham Lodge of the Primrose League. His name was not Rosenbaum,
but, as he had said, Ivor Rose, and his partners, Lewis and Smith,
were not Levi and Schmid, but the one a Welshman and the other a pure
Cockney. Rose had a perfect alibi for the night of the crime, which he
had spent attending a Wesleyan Conference in Birmingham. And, best of
all, the mysterious trunk which he had brought home after the crime
and "secreted" in an outhouse, proved to contain, not a dead or living
body, but trade samples--of Poggins's Ideal Pickles for the Home--which
the worthy merchant was conveying to the United States when Bunker's
zealous emissaries arrested him at Liverpool. In short, Rose had to be
released, vowing vengeance on the Special Branch and all its works, and
threatening to appeal to that prominent fellow-Wesleyan, the Member of
Parliament for Streatham South. Not for the first time in its career,
the Special Branch found itself badly bunkered.
On the day of Rose's release, John Pasquett set out for Glasgow,
with excellent letters of introduction to the leaders of the Clyde
Communists. He had discovered already that an agent of the Communist
International was at present in Glasgow, and he told Wilson that he
believed this man would prove to be Rosenbaum, although he passed under
another name.
After the fiasco in Bunker's room, Wilson had set Blaikie again to work
with renewed intensity. Bunker would still have the laugh of him, if
he could get no nearer to a solution of the mystery. Blaikie therefore
had an active time, but for a while nothing fresh rewarded his efforts.
Meanwhile, Wilson kept puzzling his head about the extraordinary
series of incidents which had taken place in his room before Bunker
interrupted them with his "comic turn"--for so Wilson mentally
described it.
Wilson recalled the scene. The news of Rosenbaum's arrest had been
obviously a shock to Lord Ealing. And, when he had found out that
Bunker had arrested the wrong man, his spirits had risen to the point
of hilarity. It was now clearer than ever that Lord Ealing did not want
Rosenbaum to be found.
Then there was Pasquett. He, too, had received the news of Rosenbaum's
arrest in a very odd way. He had explained, it is true, that he was
overcome by emotion at the thought that his friend's murderer had been
brought to justice. But was this the real explanation? It would not
do to forget that Pasquett stood to get Radlett's money now he was
out of the way. It was just conceivable he might have been Rosenbaum's
accomplice, or even his instigator.
This thought had found reluctant lodgment in Superintendent Wilson's
mind--for he was very much taken with Pasquett--before that most
extraordinary occurrence of all. The mutual recognition of Pasquett and
Arthur Wharton had then seemed suddenly to blow to nothing the whole of
Pasquett's _alibi_, and to throw on him the direct suspicion of having
misled the police as to where he had been at the time of the murder.
Pasquett, if he had no _alibi_, might even be the murderer, or have
been present when the deed was done.
He had asked Pasquett for an explanation, and it had been given,
seemingly in the best of faith. What Pasquett had said was perfectly
true. He had never told the police he had been in Warsaw when the crime
was committed: they had simply concluded, because he came from Warsaw,
that it was so. And he had stated quite naturally, when the question
was asked--it ought, Wilson told himself, to have been asked much
sooner--where he had been. Wilson determined to make the trip to Paramé
himself, by way of confirming or disproving Pasquett's story.
Leaving Blaikie in charge in London, therefore, Wilson crossed to St.
Malo, where he was within a few miles of Culpepper's seaside villa.
He had said nothing to Culpepper of his intentions, as he wanted to
reach the villa before Culpepper had told his wife and daughter that
they might expect a visit from the police. From St. Malo a puffing
steam tram ran out to Paramé. Wilson took this, and, descending at the
terminus, asked the way to Culpepper's villa.
He found that the villa stood in an isolated spot, some three miles
farther along the coast. He was in no great hurry, and set out to walk
the distance, gradually leaving the scattered houses of the seaside
resort behind him. Less than half an hour's walking brought him to
the place. There were no cliffs at this point, only a slight rise of
the land from the shelving beach, protected along its whole length by
a vast number of upright stakes of all shapes and sizes driven into
the sand. By the villa a small stream flowed out into the sea, and
the house grounds were bordered one way by the beach, on which was a
bathing shed, and another by the river. Strolling round to that side,
Wilson saw a little boathouse just up the river and close against the
side of the house.
After a good look round, he went to the front door, on the side away
from the sea, and knocked. He heard voices inside, conversing in
French, and after a minute a tall young woman opened the door. "Is Mr.
Culpepper at home?" he asked, observing the woman with interest.
"My father is away," she said, "and mother is in town shopping. Can I
be of any help?"
Norah Culpepper looked about thirty. Her dark hair, parted in the
middle, was coiled away smoothly at the back of her head. The most
noticeable features of her face were her strong Grecian nose and her
large, dark, lustrous eyes. Besides these, her mouth was commonplace,
but she had a quick, welcoming smile.
"I'll come in if I may," said Wilson, favourably impressed by her
appearance. "Probably you can tell me what I want to know."
Norah Culpepper led the way into a bright sitting-room. Wilson noted
her alert carriage and good tailor-made tweeds as she preceded him
into the room. An athletic young woman, as well as sensible, he decided.
"I had better tell you at once who I am," he said. "My name is
Wilson--Superintendent Wilson of Scotland Yard." His words produced
only a slightly puzzled look on Norah Culpepper's handsome face.
"I only want to ask you one or two simple questions," he went on,
"about a friend of yours, Mr. John Pasquett."
"Oh, Jack," she said. "Nothing has happened to him, I hope," she added
anxiously.
"Mr. Pasquett is quite well, and my questions are only a matter of
form," said Wilson. "He tells me he spent the night of November 17th in
this house with Mrs. Culpepper and yourself. I shall be obliged if you
will tell me if that is so."
She thought for a moment. "Yes," she said at length. "I was thinking.
It was on the afternoon of the 18th I drove him up to Paris. He left
for Poland the next morning, and I came back here. He had been spending
a long week-end with us. My father was away in London."
Wilson let out a deep breath. So Pasquett's _alibi_ was all right, if
this girl was speaking the truth. "Mr. Pasquett is an old friend of
yours?" he asked.
"Of father's, yes. Mother and I have only known him about a year. Since
father met him again in Paris. They were friends before in Russia."
"Have you heard from Mr. Culpepper lately?"
"Oh, yes. Mother heard about that dreadful affair of Mr. Radlett in
London."
"You knew Mr. Radlett?"
"Only slightly. I had met him ... in Paris. We have a flat there."
"I am sorry to seem inquisitive, Miss Culpepper, but you will
understand all this is a matter of routine. Who else would be able to
tell me for certain that Mr. Pasquett was here on the 17th and 18th?"
"Oh, mother would tell you, if she were in."
"What about your servants?"
"We only keep one here--Marie. And she sleeps out of the house. But she
must have seen Jack here in the day-time. Would you care to see her?"
Wilson asked if he might go to the kitchen and have a few words with
the servant, and Norah at once took him in and told Marie to answer any
questions he chose to put. Marie was an old, shrunken, French peasant
woman, very bright and clean, like everything that was visible in her
shining kitchen. Wilson at once asked her in French when Pasquett had
left. She counted on her fingers. "Ten days ago," she said. "It was
Wednesday, after lunch."
"And was Mr. Pasquett here on the previous night?"
"But yes. He had been here for several days--since the Saturday before."
"Did you actually see him? Are you sure he was here on the night of
Thursday?"
"But, monsieur, I am not here myself ... at night. I left after
preparing the dinner."
"You prepared dinner for Mr. Pasquett?"
"Yes, monsieur, and cleared away the things in the morning.... And Mr.
Pasquett was here to breakfast, for I cleared away dirty breakfast
things for three."
"Did you not see Mr. Pasquett in the morning?"
"No, monsieur. He had gone out early with mademoiselle. I do not come
till after breakfast."
"That is so," said Norah. "We went out directly after breakfast."
"You saw Mr. Pasquett later in the day?" asked Wilson.
"Yes, monsieur. He was there when I came back from my shopping to
prepare dinner. I saw him drive off with mademoiselle in the car."
Wilson heard the front door bang. "That will be mother," said Norah.
"You will be able to see her now. Have you done with Marie?"
Wilson thanked Marie for her help, and followed Norah back to the
sitting-room. There he found Mrs. Culpepper taking off her gloves and
bonnet. She was a dried-up, faded woman. "Whatever is the matter,
child?" she said. "Who is this gentleman?"
Wilson explained who he was, and said how kind Miss Culpepper had been
in helping him. Mrs. Culpepper was a little inclined to ask why he
needed to bother her, if he had got already the information he needed.
But at length, somewhat ungraciously, she confirmed what Norah had
said. Pasquett had been staying with them for some days before the
17th. He had spent the night of the 17th at the villa, and had left on
the evening of the 18th for Paris with Norah, who had driven him in the
car.
Wilson returned to London, feeling that, as he had expected, Pasquett's
innocence seemed to be proved. The search for Rosenbaum must be pursued
with new vigour. Perhaps by this time Pasquett had got on his track.