All Fall Down

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Something’s wrong there. Something’s very wrong. But I’m damned if I know what it is.”

Ellis and Bradstreet were seated in the train, on the way to Devonport. The early mist still clung to the valleys and the banks of the river: there was every promise of the wonderful weather continuing. Ellis faced the open window, and the breeze blew his hair into a ludicrous red crest, to the secret amusement of his colleague.

“The man was in such a state,” Ellis went on, “that I can’t believe any degree of anxiety or apprehension over his wife could bring on. He was like a shell-shock case, or a man just after a murder.”

“Perhaps he’d done one,” Bradstreet suggested placidly.

“If he had, his condition wouldn’t have been excessive. I saw a chap, in just such a state, who’d been taken red-handed. Dazed, pin-point pupils, the same deep gasping respiration. The only difference was, Rattray had better co-ordination. He came flying into the room. His manner was damned odd, too. Charged at me, as furious as dammit, the jealous husband, all that sort of stuff: then collapsed, and ran to her like a little boy to mamma, God! Yes.” Ellis shuddered. “That’s just what it was.”

“Bit out of season, eh?” commented Bradstreet.

“Bless you, Bradder. You hit the nail on the head every time. That’s precisely what it was: a bit out of season. And then, after grovelling like a baby, he recovered like that”—Ellis snapped his fingers an inch off Bradstreet’s nose—“and, when I popped my question at him, gave me a damned plausible answer. The whole thing is odd: damned odd.”

“I’ve always thought of him as a bit hysterical and high-strung, like,” Bradstreet observed.

“Well—you ought to have seen him last night. I wonder what the hell he’d been up to.”

“Nothing so very much, I dare say. That type makes much out of molehills. Mr. Gilkison found anything more?”

“I didn’t give him much chance.”

Ellis told Bradstreet of the scene in the front room.

“He didn’t do any harm,” he concluded, “so I didn’t tell him off. It would only have upset him, and stiffened him. His own conscience will be much more effective. But I believe him when he says he didn’t think it up. I’ve had him around once or twice before on a case. He’s a good chap. He doesn’t interfere or get in the way. In fact, in one case he was the greatest help.”

“He may be in this. We shouldn’t have found out about the books being taken, only for him. Nor about Nelder.”

“Nor about Nelder. Do you think we’re going to get anything, Bradder? Or are we on a wild goose chase?”

“I can’t say.” Bradstreet looked out of the window. “It’s as pleasant a way of spending the day as any other, anyhow.”

Ellis looked at him admiringly. To this patient, placid man, one day’s work was like another. His duty was taking him to Devonport, he would enjoy the journey, untroubled by any speculation about its yield. If the day turned out to be wasted, he would come as cheerfully back again, and there would be another day to-morrow. The only difference between his working days was that some were pleasant and some were unpleasant. This was one of the pleasant days.

The line wound round the spurs of Dartmoor, spilled sharply into the valley of the Tavy, passed Tavistock, somnolent and peaceful with the sun on its grey roofs, ran through the woods, and came out by the broad prospect of the Tamar. A few minutes, and they were in Devonport, in streets which the sun seemed to have sealed up into a prim emptiness.

“Where is this pub?” Ellis asked.

“Off Durnford Street.”

“Shall we go there straight, or have lunch first?”

“It’s twenty past twelve. What do you think?”

“He’ll be there afterwards, I suppose?”

“He will. He’s expecting us.”

“Good. The longer we keep him the better. When’s our train home, did you say?”

“Ten to five.”

“Good. Time for tea before we start. Lunch, then, Bradder. Lunch by all means.”

“It’ll be pretty near one by the time we get it,” Bradstreet was smiling, with the glee of a man evading his conscience.

The hotel recommended by Bradstreet was some little way away, and, as he prophesied, it was five to one before the first dish was set before them. They lunched royally together, their liking for each other swelling and warming as the meal progressed. They did not hurry, but gave their meal ample time to settle—in Ellis’s phrase—and Nelder ample time to grow impatient or apprehensive, according to his mood.

The hotel at which he was staying had the particular look of respectability that manages at a second glance to suggest something sinister. It fitted so perfectly the character given Nelder by Gilkison that Ellis laughed.

A man of mildly horsey appearance sauntered casually up to them as they approached.

“All right?” Bradstreet asked him.

“Yes, sir. He’s there. In the far corner of the lounge.”

They went in, and saw a figure in the corner, sitting with crossed legs, reading one of the more popular newspapers. He raised an eye as they entered, and regarded them with bilious distaste. The face was at first sight handsome; but a nearer view showed that the features added up to a fatal commonness, and the expression was unpleasant. Perhaps it was unfair to judge of the man’s looks at the moment, for he was manifestly in a very bad temper.

Bradstreet accosted him benignly.

“Mr. Nelder?”

“That’s my name.”

“We’d be glad of a little private conversation with you. Is there anywhere else we can go?”

“I’ve nothing to say to you or anyone else that can’t be said here.”

“Happy man,” Ellis purred, and received an envenomed glance.

“That’s all right, then.”

Bradstreet sat down opposite him, and Ellis pulled up a leather armchair.

“Nice weather,” he observed. “You don’t get the best of it in here.”

Bradstreet proceeded to business.

“We are police officers, Mr. Nelder. We are enquiring into the death of Mr. Matthew Baildon, of West Nattering, and we wish to ask you a few questions.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Nelder replied. “I never went near him. I don’t know a thing about it.”

“We’re well aware of your movements during your stay at West Nattering, Mr. Nelder,” Ellis intervened smoothly. “We require no information on that subject. What we would like to hear from you is your reason for visiting the place.”

“I’ve a right to go where I like, haven’t I?”

“Indubitably, Mr. Nelder. Provided that on your travels you do not transgress the law.”

“Who says I have?”

“Nobody, so far. We have no doubt you had an excellent reason for your visit. Won’t you tell us what it was?”

“You have no right to ask me to account for my movements.”

Ellis beamed on him.

“The village of West Nattering, though it has a certain old-world charm, is not at first sight a likely theatre for the activities of a keen man of business like yourself. There is only one feature which could attract you—unless you are fond of watching fish? No. I thought not—only one feature you would find interesting. You are, I understand, a bibliophile? Would that be a fair description? Yes. Then the only feature which could conceivably attract you, in default of the fish, is the library of the late Mr. Matthew Baildon.”

There was a silence, disturbed only by Nelder’s noisy breathing.

“Am I right?” Ellis asked, with innocent wide-open eyes.

“I don’t see why you expect me to tell you my business secrets.”

“Heaven forbid!” Ellis exclaimed piously. “But there is no secret about your interest in Matt Baildon’s books. You communicated it quite openly to a third party.”

“If you know all about it, why are you asking me?”

“Only God knows all, Mr. Nelder. We are but police officers. We would like your corroboration of our few discoveries and our poor surmises. For example: you informed Mr. Stuyvesant, a wealthy American citizen over here on a visit, that Matt Baildon was open to offers for certain books. Where did you get that information?”

“I said before, I’m not giving away any business secrets.”

“I’m afraid we shall have to ask you to make an exception in favour of this one.”

Ellis’s voice was smooth as oil.

“And if I don’t?”

“A very unpleasant construction might be put upon your refusal. By judge and jury.”

“You can’t bluff me,” Nelder said, after a pause.

“We have no wish to. No need to. You must remember that, once information has passed between two parties, there are always two avenues through which it may be recovered. At least two. Come, Mr. Nelder. In your own interest you had better answer the question. How did you hear that Matt Baildon wished to sell a portion of his library?”

Nelder’s face set into a sulky obstinacy, weakened by uneasiness.

“We know that it was not from Baildon himself,” Ellis pursued, “since he did all his business through one man, Mr. Paul Gilkison, of Vigo Street. Mr. Gilkison has assured us of that.”

The mention of his competitor did the trick. Nelder’s face twisted in animosity and contempt.

“That’s all he knows,” he sneered. “I can tell him different. I’ve handled as much of Matt Baildon’s stuff as he has, and more too.”

“Well, well. That is very interesting. How did you get hold of it?”

Nelder flushed to the colour of milk chocolate.

“What do you mean?” he said violently. “How could anyone get hold if it?”

“That is precisely the question. I asked how you got hold of it.”

“How do you think?”

“I could think of several ways,” Ellis told him dreamily. “But I don’t want to match my ingenuity against yours in a field where I should be at a very grave disadvantage. I’d rather hear from you.”

Nelder pursed his lips together. There was a short silence, broken by Bradstreet.

“Let’s take one thing at a time,” he suggested amiably. “It may be quite enough for our purpose if Mr. Nelder will tell us how he got his information this time.”

“Capital, Bradder. Capital. You bring me back from abstract speculation to the present. Never indulge in abstract speculation, Mr. Nelder, except when you are in a hot bath. Even then, don’t go on too long, or you’ll wake up and find the water has gone cold on you. How did you get the information which you gave to Mr. Stuyvesant?”

Nelder still said nothing.

Ellis sighed.

“It is in your interest to tell us. It may take us a long time to find it out for ourselves, but find it out we shall.”

“I had a letter,” Nelder said at last.

“From Matt Baildon?”

“No.”

“From whom, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, oh, oh.”

“May we see the letter?”

“You don’t suppose I carry all my business correspondence around the country with me, do you?”

“Only the letters that belong to the business in hand. Show us the letter, please.”

Nelder struggled with his feelings. At last he put his hand into his inside breast pocket, drew out a wallet, and from it extracted a folded piece of paper which he pushed sulkily over.

Bradstreet leaned across, and Ellis opened it, holding it where he could see it too. It was typewritten, on a half sheet of coarse, bluish notepaper, unsigned, and bore neither address nor date.

Ellis looked up.

“When did you get this, Mr. Nelder?”

“Monday.”

“You allowed some days to elapse?”

“Couldn’t get off at a minute’s notice.”

“You know the writer?”

“No.”

“But—on your own evidence, and the evidence of the letter here, this is not your first transaction of the kind? You told us that a number of Matt Baildon’s books had been through your hands?”

“So they have.”

“From whom did you buy them? From the writer of this letter?”

“How do I know who wrote the letter? You can see for yourself, it’s not signed. Not a thought-reader, am I?”

“All right. With whom did you do business on the previous occasions? Come, Mr. Nelder. You aren’t going to tell us that the books came to you of their own accord. They were not posted to you, but delivered personally. The letter makes that clear. Very well, then. Who delivered them?”

“I tell you, I don’t know.”

“Was it a man, or a woman?”

“A woman,” Nelder said sulkily.

“Young or old?”

“I don’t know. She was all muffled up. It was winter, I tell you, and dark. I didn’t see her face.”

“You met out of doors, then. Nelder, Nelder! was that well done?”

“I paid for the books. Paid a damned good price for them. What does it matter where it was?”

“A muffled woman, out of doors, in the dark. Are most of your purchases made under those conditions?”

“If people like play-acting, it’s no concern of mine. I paid for the books, and got ’em.”

“It never occurred to you to wonder whether old Matt gave the transaction his blessing, I suppose? In other words, whether you were receiving stolen goods?”

“Why the hell should I think that? It’s only chaps like you that go around thinking the worst of people.”

Ellis shot at long range.

“All the same, the books never appeared in your catalogue.”

Nelder licked his lips.

“That doesn’t mean anything. Lots of the books I sell don’t go into the catalogue.”

“I can well believe that. Would you recognise the woman if you saw her again?”

“I tell you, I never saw her face.”

“There was no trick of voice or gesture?”

“She spoke all muffled, too.”

“Was she short or tall?”

“I don’t know. Sort of medium, I think. I didn’t notice.”

“In too much of a hurry to get away with the swag,” Ellis observed.

“Look here, you’ve got no right to talk like that. I tell you, I paid for the books, and paid a good price too, which is more than some would——”

“——for stolen property,” Ellis finished for him. “Quite. Well, well. A very nice story. Unsavoury, perhaps, but vivid, I can only see one gap in it.”

Nelder’s head jerked upwards belligerently.

“What’s that?”

“You can give no clear account of the person who sold you the books, because the transaction, or transactions, took place in winter, and it was dark. Correct?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“You did. You did indeed. But you forgot one interesting point.”

“Eh?”

“We are now in the middle of June. It wasn’t dark on Thursday, Nelder. Nor on Friday.”

The unhealthy face blanched. “What d’you mean?”

“The latest parcel, Nelder. The books you bought this time. You had every opportunity to see the other party. The light lasts long into the evening at this time of year. It’s warm, too. I even doubt if she was muffled up.”

The room was very silent. Nelder said nothing at all. His eyes flickered and half closed.

Ellis waited for a few seconds, then went on, in friendly conversational tone.

“A number of books are missing from Matt Baildon’s library. We know exactly which they are—titles, dates, all particulars. You have admitted to making previous purchases. You have also admitted that you were here in response to this letter. I think, on these facts, that we are entitled to ask you two questions. One, what have you done with the books? Two, who sold them to you?”

When Nelder spoke, his words came out singly, cautiously, like animals coming from their lair after an alarm.

“Who said I ’ad the books?”

“No one. We just inferred it.”

“Not the same thing as proving it, mister.”

Ellis shrugged.

“You will find them hard to dispose of.” He waited for a gleam in Nelder’s eye, but the lid veiled it. “Unless you have passed them on already. I think not, however. There are better buyers in London than in the West.”

“Prove that I’ve got ’em, before you start guessing what I’ve done with ’em.”

“Yes. Yes. We do things in our own good time.”

Nelder’s confidence was returning. His face creased stiffly into a leer.

“Another thing,” he said. “Supposin’—I don’t admit a word of it, mind you, from start to finish—but supposin’ it was the wife or daughter sold the books, or had ’em sold; now that the old boy’s dead, who did they steal ’em from?”

Ellis nodded four or five times.

“A pretty point. Provided, of course, the transaction took place after Matt’s death.”

“Supposin’ it didn’t—mind you, I’m not admitting——”

“Yes. Yes. We know.”

“Supposin’ there was a sale, and it was before ’e died: who’s goin’ to charge the bloke who bought the books?”

“You can leave all that to us.” Ellis got up. “Well, Mr. Nelder, it’s been a most instructive conversation. Thank you so much. We needn’t keep you any longer from the fresh air and the sunshine. That is, unless you have anything to ask, Bradder?”

“No.” Bradstreet stood up. He looked down on Nelder. “We shall want you for the inquest. I’ll let you know.”

“I can’t hang around all the week at your convenience,” Nelder exclaimed truculently.

“You may go where you like, so long as we know where you are, and you can get to West Nattering in time.”

“It’s damned inconvenient to a business man.”

“There are worse inconveniences,” Ellis drawled. “One of ’em’s on the moor, not so far from here. Take it easy, Nelder. You’re getting out of this very lightly, so far. Oh no, thank you. We keep the letter.”

They went out before Nelder could reply.

“Well, Bradder,” Ellis said comfortably, as they sought the shady side of the glaring street. “What do you make of that?”

“That poor soul,” Bradstreet sighed. “I suppose she’s been scraping for Joan that way for a while now.”

“How could she risk it, Bradder? Gilk says the old boy knew where every book was.”

“He’s been getting infirm these last three or four years. I doubt if he could come to the top shelves alone. He made Joan get the books for him.”

“Even then, there was always the chance that he’d ask for one of the missing books. She was taking a big risk, poor woman.”

“I don’t look on that as thieving in the ordinary way,” Bradstreet said. “The books were coming to them in the long run. She was only taking a little on account.”

“Bradder, Bradder! These are highly immoral sentiments from a pillar of the force.”

“Are they? I can’t help it.” Bradstreet’s face was placid.

“I thought I was the only thoroughly immoral man on this job. I’m surprised at you, all the same. You’ll be telling me in a minute you wouldn’t blame her if she scuppered the old So-and-So.”

“No,” Bradstreet said. “I wouldn’t go that far. But, if I’d been her, I’d have been tempted.”

“Put it there, pal. You and me’s buddies. Now—let’s forget that unsavoury fellow and his ugly face. I prescribe a nice ride, and a scramble on the Hoe. Do you scramble, Bradder? My grandmother used to recommend me to go for a scramble. It sounds so nice. Come on. Give us an appetite for our tea, and then—home. Lord—it’s hot.”

Bradstreet looked at the sky, screwing his face into a small boy’s grimace.

“Sun’s scalding,” he said. “Looks like thunder.”

“Will it rain? I loathe getting wet.”

“Not yet, I reckon.”