All Fall Down

CHAPTER FIVE

“Life,” Ellis pronounced, “has shrunk to a pattern. Alter tea, we go to call on Matt Baildon. On our arrival, Matt Baildon is rude to us.”

“There may be a variant or two this afternoon,” Gilkison said, “when Matt starts cross-examining you about the ’nineties.”

“That was your lie, not mine. I shall see that it recoils on you.”

“No doubt.”

The two were walking up the road. The sun was still very hot. The haze that had softened it earlier had been burned away.

Matt Baildon’s trees stood staring in bleak ugliness. They looked lumpy and indigestible in the sunlight. His front gate was open: a small van was drawn up against the kerb.

“ ‘Daffodil Laundry,’ ” Ellis read. “A hankering after the grace which nature has denied him.”

They went in. As they rounded the stiff bend in the drive, a man came round the angle of the house at a half run. His face was yellow, his eyes at once startled and gloating. His lips moved, and he was muttering soundlessly to himself, as if memorising the lines of a part.

As soon as he saw them, his eyes opened to their widest. He shook his head, and made a strange wavering gesture with his hand.

“No. You can’t go in there,” he babbled. “No. Not in there.”

“Why not?” Ellis asked sharply.

“Mr. Baildon.”

The man could not get his breath. He had to shape the words with his lips before he could utter them.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“ ’E’s dead.”

“Dead?”

The man nodded. “Doctor’s in with en.” His words came suddenly, in a rush. “I been in to leave laundry. Couldn’t get no answer, didn’t hear nobody, so I puts me ’ead in to the front room, to ask where they’m all to, and then I sees en, layin’ all knocked over, like.”

Ellis and Gilkison exchanged glances, and ran up the steps, Ellis leading. They fumbled hurriedly down the dark passage, and into the room.

It was strangely lighter. As he rounded the corner of the jutting bookcase, Ellis realised why. The rampart of books was gone from the top of it, and the light now poured across it unobstructed.

Another step, and he saw where the books had gone. The floor was piled deep with them, a scattered angular avalanche, from which arose, like a half-buried building, Matt Baildon’s wheel chair.

All this Ellis saw half consciously. His eyes had fixed on something more remarkable. On the floor, among the shoal of books, the huddled figure of their owner lay all awry. Over him, on one knee, hampered by the books, bent the figure of a large, powerfully built man in brown tweeds.

He looked up angrily as Ellis entered. His lean face was dark against the light. A patch of hair grew on each cheek, above the line of the razor. Long moustaches did not altogether hide a wide, resolute mouth.

“This is most improper,” he exclaimed thickly. “What are you doing here? Get out at once.”

Ellis clicked his tongue.

“You’ve moved him,” he cried accusingly.

The doctor glared.

“Of course I’ve moved him, you bloody fool. How else d’you think I’m going to get at him?”

“Never move the body. You may destroy vital evidence. It’s clear you have no experience of police procedure.”

The doctor’s pupils went small.

“You a policeman?”

“I am.”

“Thank God I haven’t, then.”

He bent down, and went on with his examination. Ellis looked at him with wrinkled brow, and suddenly grinned. The doctor’s head jerked up again.

“Why the hell shouldn’t I move him? What right have you to question me, sir? This has got nothing whatever to do with you. This is a purely medical matter.”

“I’m not so sure, doctor.”

The older man’s face became clotted with rage. He gazed at Ellis, his moustaches working. A bright bead of saliva gleamed at the corner of his mouth.

“You——”

“How was he lying?”

The abruptness of the question startled the doctor. He was silent, then growled, “On his face.”

“Where he is now—or have you pulled him clear?”

“I moved his head and shoulders.”

“D’you move any of the books?”

“As they were all over him, I did. Does that reveal ignorance of police procedure?”

Ellis took no notice of the belligerent glare and out-thrust chin.

“Books on top of him, eh?”

“Everywhere.”

“That muffler. Was it round his neck, or loose, as it is now?”

“Damn it all, sir!” roared the doctor. “How do I know? My concern is with my patient. I’ve better things to do than worry about mufflers and buttons.”

Ellis shook his head.

“Sorry, doctor. But I refuse to believe it.”

“You refuse to believe what?”

“I refuse to believe that you, a trained professional observer, would not notice, even unconsciously, an important detail of that kind.”

The doctor got up, dusting his hands together. He stood well over six feet.

“Exactly what do you imply by that, sir?”

“I imply nothing. I’m simply telling you that you most certainly must have noticed whether Mr. Baildon had his muffler knotted round his neck, as he had yesterday afternoon, or whether it was loose, as it is now. If it was knotted, you must have undone it. Come, doctor. There’s no use in our quarrelling. If I’ve offended you, I’m exceedingly sorry. I’m a bit uncouth sometimes, I know. My friend Gilkison here is always telling me of it. You see, I have my job to do, just as you have yours. I think of it first, and of my manners afterwards.”

The doctor’s face did not relax during this speech. He regarded Ellis grimly, and, at the end, he grunted and glanced down at the dead man.

“It wasn’t knotted,” he said gruffly. “It had one end slung loosely across. I pulled it away to examine the patient.”

Ellis smiled.

“Thank you, doctor. I knew you’d remember. Thank God for professionals. The trained mind never lets us down. Does it, Gilk?”

The doctor looked at Gilkison.

“You a policeman too?”

“No. A bookseller.”

“A bookseller?” The eyes narrowed again. “Baildon wasn’t selling.”

“I am only too well aware of that. He sent for me to value certain books. I had performed that service for him on more than one occasion.”

“Sent for you, did he?”

The doctor seemed surprised. He looked down again at Matt Baildon. Ellis stepped across the disordered pile of books, and kneeled down beside the dead man.

Matt was an unpleasant sight. His mouth was open, and the interior of it looked dry and discoloured. The eyes started from the sockets, half open, dull, already devoid of moisture. The beak of the nose was accentuated in death, and the face fast taking on a waxen fixity. The fingers of his hands were clenched beneath the thick woollen mittens.

Ellis peered close, lifted a corner of the moustache, and began to whistle through his teeth. The doctor watched him satirically.

“Satisfied?”

Ellis turned on him a gaze half meditative, half aggressive.

“Looks to me as if he’d been suffocated.”

The doctor gave an angry bark of laughter.

“Well he may—with his face in the rug and a couple of hundredweight of books on top of him.”

“Face in the rug, was it? D’you mind showing me exactly how he was lying?”

The doctor put his hands on his hips. It was almost exactly the gesture of a fishwife about to let loose a flood of vituperation.

“Look here, Mr. Policeman—I don’t know your name——”

“Detective Inspector McKay, of Scotland Yard. This is Mr. Paul Gilkison, of Vigo Street. You are——?”

“My name’s Carter.”

“Mr. Baildon’s physician?”

“Why else d’you think I’m here?”

“You might have been called in, as the nearest doctor.”

“There isn’t another in the place,” growled Dr. Carter.

“Even if there were, I am sure Mr. Baildon would have consulted you. But you were in the point of saying something to me. Please go on.”

The doctor glared. He cleared his throat.

“I was about to ask you what you think you’re playing at? This is——”

“I don’t think I’m playing at all. I wish I were. I came here for a holiday.”

“Inspector McKay is a book collector,” Gilkison interposed. “I brought him in to see Mr. Baildon’s collection.”

“Indeed.” The doctor continued to glare at Ellis. “Well—except that you’ll be disappointed in that aim—you can resume your holiday. There is no occasion for your services here.”

“You think, then, doctor, that this is a straightforward case of accident?”

The doctor snorted.

“Of course it is. What else could it be?”

“Mr. Baildon appeared to have a good deal of life in him yesterday afternoon. I should have thought it would take more than this showerbath to extinguish him.”

“You’re a layman,” the doctor said with contempt. “I daresay you know no better.”

“I await instruction.”

For a couple of seconds it looked as if he were not going to get it. The doctor scowled, and looked at the back of one of his large hands before replying. They were hairy as an ape’s.

“I repeat, I can’t see what concern it is of yours,” he said. “I may tell you, however, the deceased had a coronary thrombosis. I have been treating him for it for a considerable time. I’d kept him in bed for the past three weeks, and only let him downstairs yesterday for the first time. In his condition, a shock like this—why, man, it would knock out you or me.”

Ellis nodded.

“Who was with him at the time?”

“No one.”

“How did it happen?”

Dr. Carter shrugged.

“This—this structure was exceedingly precarious. A touch would have brought it down. He might have bumped into it with his chair. Anything.”

“Was the chair exactly where it is now? Or did you have to move it?”

“Try to move it,” Carter exclaimed.

They looked at the chair. The books had fallen in a mass between it and the shelves. Stepping gingerly across, Ellis put his hand on it. It gave a bare inch in one direction; otherwise it was immovable. Books lay on the seat.

“H’m,” Ellis said. “He was sitting with his back to the bookshelf. The books fell towards him, hit him on the head and shoulders, and knocked him out of the chair face downwards: and he died of shock, or suffocation, or both. That your theory?”

“I am not bothering to form a theory.”

“But—forgive me—you must. You have to sign the death certificate.”

“That is not a point on which you are qualified to advise me.”

“Technically, no. But——”

“His condition was such that I should not have been surprised to learn that he had died at any moment.”

“There will have to be an inquest, doctor. The jury may——”

The doctor cut him short with a roar.

“What the hell d’you think you’re doing, sir, coming down here and thrusting yourself in where nobody wants you! Just because you haven’t enough to do in London, you come down here and try to work up a murder out of a case of pure accident, to get yourself notoriety and drag an unfortunate family into the glare of public attention and suspicion. Go back to London, I tell you, there’s nothing for you here!”

He broke off, foaming. There was a hush. The violence of his voice seemed to reverberate among the shelves.

“Tut, tut.” Ellis looked at him benignly. “Think a minute, doctor. When you’re on holiday, and you hear of an accident in the next street, do you rush to be first on the scene? Do you? Nor do I.”

“Get out, then—and leave me to deal with this.”

“I’d love to, doctor. But I’m afraid it’s gone beyond your province. You said I was trying to work up a case of murder. (I didn’t say so—you did.) On the contrary, I’d be only too glad to accept your theory of an accident. Only, there are one or two difficulties in the way. May I tell you what they are?”

“My good sir. An old man with a dicky heart keeps, against all advice, a stack of books reaching to the ceiling. He knows himself how dangerous it is. The first thing he always does, when anyone comes into the room, is to warn them not to knock against it. He’s been three weeks upstairs, and comes down yesterday. This afternoon, he’s by himself, he wants a book, he manipulates the chair a little clumsily, maybe, after his spell in bed, he bumps into the bookshelf, and brings a load of heavy books down on top of him, with such force as to knock him out of the chair on his face. As if the blow isn’t enough, his face is buried in the rug. What more do you want? The thing’s plain as day.”

“What evidence have you, doctor, that he bumped into the bookshelves with his chair?”

“It’s the most obvious way for the accident to have occurred.”

“To bump into the bookshelf, the chair must have been just underneath it.”

“Of course.”

“Look where it is now.”

“Well?”

“It’s pointing at an angle of about forty-five degrees away from the bookshelf. Its nearest distance to the bookshelf is—what—four feet? In the direction it’s facing, it must have travelled a good six. You can’t move it now, either way. Did the books knock it all that way before any of them could fall in front of it? And before they knocked the old man clear? Not possible, doctor. It doesn’t make sense.

“What’s more—take a look at the near corner of his moustache. Underneath. Here—let me lend you a glass.”

The doctor stared at Ellis, then slowly went down on one knee.

“Yes. There. If I’m not mistaken,” Ellis went on, “that’s a thread from his muffler.”

“There’s nothing in that,” the doctor said slowly. “If he had the muffler knotted round his neck, his moustache could easily have rested on it and caught up a thread.”

“Maybe. But, taken with the position of the chair, it makes one think.”

The doctor got up. His face showed some emotion.

“Let me give you a piece of advice, sir. Be careful how you stir up theories and speculation here. This man’s wife and daughter have suffered enough as it is: more than enough. Don’t, I beg of you, add to their pain unnecessarily. If ever there was a blessed release, it is here. For them, I mean. Not for him. Everyone in these parts knows it; and no one will look kindly on any attempt to make things difficult for them. On the contrary, it will be fiercely resented.”

“I was just going to ask you about the wife and daughter, doctor. Where are they?”

“Upstairs.”

“I shall have to see them, I’m afraid.”

The old man looked hard at Ellis. His great hands clenched.

“If you harm them——” he said, and did not finish. Then, unexpectedly, his tone changed. “Let them be, Inspector. They didn’t bump him off. Though I wouldn’t have blamed them if they had.”

Gilkison started, and stared at him, his eyelids fluttering rapidly. Ellis merely nodded.

“I gathered that things weren’t too easy.”

The doctor jerked his head towards Matthew Baildon’s body.

“He was my patient, and I did my best for him. But I’ve been tempted more than once to give him his quietus. As curmudgeonly an old skinflint as ever grudged his cat a lick of the plate. He gave those two hell.”

“An unamiable soul, our Matt.” Ellis looked tolerantly at the corpse. “Violent, in earlier life, I’ll be bound.”

The doctor nodded. “Everything went on books. If it hadn’t been that he liked his food, they wouldn’t have had enough to eat. They had to fight him for every penny. The girl’s eyes—that was due to his neglect. Wouldn’t spare the money for proper attention. Damn it, he grudged their calling me in if they were ill.”

“Was he more manageable lately?”

“After that business of Joan’s eyes, I’ve been able to handle him a bit,” Dr. Carter said, with a grim set to his jaw. “I managed to frighten him properly that time. But it was like getting blood from a stone, always. Joan wants to go to Oxford. Been set on it for years. A clever child—at the school they all said she should go. Do you think he’d allow her?”

He glared malignantly at the dead face, so incongruously remote from all that was being said. It was impossible to believe that so much power had resided in this small peaked and twisted thing, with its sunken O-shaped gap of a mouth, round which moustache and whiskers sprouted in foolish disarray, irrelevant, more like fluff from a sweeper fallen on the face than those tremulous appendages of yesterday, bristling with life like quivering enraged antennae. What was left of Matt Baildon was a tiny, shrunken, pathetic, little old doll, with a body of rags, and a carven knob for a head. It could not be thought of as having been ever grudging or splenetic or subject to any sort of human feeling. The secret held by those ruined features, those frozen, half-lidded eyes, was something so far within, so deep down, as to be beyond understanding. Death, that brings majesty to so many, crossed Matt Baildon out and made him null.

“Well,” Ellis said. “We’ve looked at him long enough. You haven’t reported yet, doctor? Of course you haven’t. You’ve had no time. Where’s the station?”

“Half a mile out. Help me pick him up, will you? We can’t leave him here.”

“We must, till the police surgeon sees him.”

“I’m the police surgeon.”

“Good for you. We’ll have to get someone else for the autopsy, though.”

“I’ll do it—if you insist on this tomfool nonsense.”

“Beg pardon, doctor. But you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You’re an interested party. For all I or anyone else knows, you may have effected the happy release yourself. Now, now! Don’t bristle at me. I can’t help myself. I’ve got to run this side of the thing in my way. You run your side of it in yours. I’d say the same if I’d found Gilkie here with him.”

Dr. Carter controlled himself with a mighty effort. He looked at Ellis, his great shoulders squared. Unconcernedly, Ellis stooped, and caught Matt under the knees.

“Take his shoulders, will you? That’s it. Upsy daisy. Where are we going to put him?”

“Joan’s room. She’d better sleep with her mother.”

“Hardly worth taking him upstairs, is it? They’ll be here for him in an hour or two.”

“Nowhere down here to put him.”

“Gilk—nip up ahead, and see if the coast’s clear. We don’t want them to see this.”

The stairs were narrow and twisting. A minute landing, no more than a corner, was so filled with books that they had a job to brush past. In the small, dark space, Carter looked enormous. He grunted with the sheer difficulty of getting his bulk along. Matt was no weight at all.

“Here you are.”

They edged in a door into a little, severe white room. The iron bedstead was narrow. An old counterpane, so often washed it had lost its whiteness, was not large enough to hide the bed’s forbidding outline.

“Pull it down, Gilk.”

Gilkison hastily slipped back the counterpane, and stood aside as Matt was laid on the bed, and straightened out.

“There.”

Ellis drew the counterpane over him. It was like a conjuring trick, there seemed to be nothing underneath. He glanced round the room. This too was full of books. Matt’s hobby tyrannised everywhere in his house. A Bonzo puppy on the mantelpiece, a school group, a couple of banal coloured prints, a gaunt dressing-table with two or three small ornaments, were the only things that testified to the girl who occupied the room.

Ellis shook his head. His brow darkened angrily.

“Not much self-expression here.”

“I tell you, they were lucky to call their souls their own,” cried the doctor fiercely.

“By the way, doctor, who sent for you? There’s no phone.”

“Joan ran down. I live only three hundred yards away.”

“Did she find him?”

“No, thank God. Her mother did.”

“Shock to her? Did she need attention?”

“Not immediately. I was going to her, as soon as I’d finished——”

“Go on in now, would you mind? And see if she’s fit to answer a few questions.”

The doctor made an inarticulate sound. He towered over Ellis.

“I won’t have them bullied. You understand?”

“My dear good man. I feel to them as you do. Besides, I never bully anyone—except a bully. It doesn’t work.”