Death At The Bar

Chapter XII Curious Behavior of Mr. Legge

i

On that first night in Ottercombe, from the time Oates left them until half-past eleven, Alleyn and Fox thrashed out the case and debated a plan of action. Alleyn was now quite certain Watchman had been murdered.

“Unless there’s a catch, Br’er Fox, and I can’t spot it if there is. The rat-hole, the dart, the newspaper, and the general evidence ought to give us ‘Who,’ but we’re still in the dark about ‘How.’ There are those bits of melted glass, now.”

“I asked old Pomeroy. He says the fireplace was cleared out the day before.”

“Well, we’ll have to see if the experts can tell us if it’s the same kind as the brandy glass. Rather, let us hope they can say definitely that it’s not the same. Oh, Lord!”

He got up, stretched himself, and leant over the window-sill. The moon was out and the sleeping roofs of Ottercombe made such patterns of white and inky black as woodcut-draughtsmen love. It was a gull’s eye view Alleyn had from the parlour window, a setting for a child’s tale of midnight wonders. A cat was sitting on one of the crooked eaves. It stared at the moon and might have been waiting for an appointment with some small night-gowned figure that would presently lean, dreaming, from the attic window. Alleyn had a liking for old fairy tales and found himself thinking of George Macdonald and At the Back of the North Wind. The Coombe was very silent in the moonlight.

“All asleep,” said Alleyn, “except us, and Mr. Robert Legge. I wish he’d come home to bed.”

“There’s a car, now,” said Fox, “up by the tunnel.”

It was evidently a small car and an old one. With a ramshackle clatter it drew nearer the pub and then the driver must have turned his engine off and coasted down to the garage. There followed the squeak of brakes. A door slammed tinnily. Someone dragged open the garage door.

“That’s him,” said Fox.

“Good,” said Alleyn. “Pop into the passage, Fox, and hale him in.”

Fox went out, leaving the door open. Alleyn heard slow steps plod across the yard to the side entrance. Fox said, “Good evening, sir. Is it Mr. Legge?”

A low mumble.

“Could you spare us a moment, sir? We’re police officers. Chief Inspector Alleyn would be glad to have a word with you.”

A pause, another mumble, and then approaching steps.

“This way, sir,” said Fox, and ushered in Mr. Robert Legge.

Alleyn saw a medium-sized man who stooped a little. He saw a large head, white hair, a heavily-lined face and a pair of callused hands. Legge, blinking in the lamplight, looked a defenceless, rather pathetic figure.

“Mr. Legge?” said Alleyn. “I’m sorry to bother you so late in the evening. Won’t you sit down?”

Fox moved forward a chair and, without uttering a word, Legge sat in it. He was under the lamp. Alleyn saw that his clothes, which had once been good, were darned and faded. Everything about the man seemed bleached and characterless. He looked nervously from Alleyn to Fox. His lips were not quite closed and showed his palpably false teeth.

“I expect,” said Alleyn, “that you have guessed why we are here.”

Legge said nothing.

“We’re making enquiries about the death of Mr. Luke Watchman.”

“Oh yes?” said Legge breathlessly.

“There are one or two points we would like to clear up and we hope you will be able to help us.”

The extraordinarily pale eyes flickered.

“Only too pleased,” murmured Legge and looked only too wretched.

“Tell me,” said Alleyn, “have you formed any theory about this affair?”

“Accident.”

“You think that’s possible?”

Legge looked at Alleyn as if he had said something profoundly shocking.

“Possible? But of course it’s possible. Dreadfully possible. Such a way to do things. They should have bought traps. The chemist should be struck off the rolls. It’s a disgrace.”

He lowered his voice and became conspiratorial.

“It was a terrible, virulent poison,” he whispered mysteriously. “A shocking thing that they should have it here. The coroner said so.”

He spoke with a very slight lisp, a mere thickening of sibilants caused, perhaps, by his false teeth.

“How do you think it got on the dart you threw into Mr. Watchman’s finger?”

Legge made a gesture that disconcerted and astonished Alleyn. He raised his hand and shook a finger at Alleyn as if he gently admonished him. If his face had not spoken of terror, he would have looked faintly waggish.

“You suspect me,” he said. “You shouldn’t.”

Alleyn was so taken aback by this old-maidish performance that for a moment he could think of nothing to say.

“You shouldn’t,” repeated Legge. “Because I didn’t.”

“The case is as wide open as the grave.”

“He’s dead,” whispered Legge, “and buried. I didn’t do it. I was the instrument. It’s not a very pleasant thing to be the instrument of death.”

“No. You should welcome any attempt to get to the bottom of the affair.”

“So I would,” muttered Legge eagerly, “if I thought they would get to the truth. But I’m not popular here. Not in some quarters. And that makes me nervous, Chief Inspector.”

“It needn’t,” said Alleyn. “But we’re being very unorthodox, Mr. Legge. May we have your full name and address?”

Fox opened his note-book. Legge suddenly stood up and, in an uncertain sort of fashion, came to attention.

“Robert Legge,” he said rapidly, “care of the Plume of Feathers, Ottercombe, South Devon. Business address: Secretary and Treasurer the Coombe Left Movement, G.P.O., Box 119, Illington.”

He sat down again.

“Thank you, sir” said Fox.

“How long have you been here, Mr. Legge?” asked Alleyn.

“Ten months. My chest is not very good. Nothing serious, you know. I needn’t be nervous on that account. But I was in very low health altogether. Boils. Even in my ears. Very unpleasant and painful. My doctor said it would be as well to move.”

“Ah, yes. From where?”

“From Liverpool. I was in Liverpool. In Flattery Street, South, Number 17. Not a very healthy part.”

“That was your permanent address?”

“Yes. I had been there for some little time. I had one or two secretaryships. For a time I was in vacuums.”

“What?”

“In vacuum cleaners. But that did not altogether agree with my chest. I got very tired, and you wouldn’t believe how rude some women can be. Positively odious! So I gave it up for stamps.”

His voice, muffled and insecure though it was, seemed the voice of an educated man. Alleyn wondered if he had been born to vacuum cleaners and philately.

“How long were you in Liverpool, Mr. Legge?”

“Nearly two years.”

“And before that?”

“I was in London. In the City. I was born in London. Why do you ask?”

“Routine, Mr. Legge,” said Alleyn, and thought of Cubitt. “What I was going to ask you was this. Had you ever met Mr. Watchman before he arrived at Ottercombe?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Alleyn looked up.

“Do you mind telling us where you met him? You need not answer any of these questions, of course, if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t in the least object, Chief Inspector. I met him in a slight collision at Diddlestock Corner. He was very nice about it.”

Alleyn stared at him and he blinked nervously. Fox, Alleyn noticed, was stifling a grin.

“Was that the first time you saw him?”

“Oh, no. I’d seen him before. In court.”

“What?”

“I used to go a great deal to the courts when I was in London. I always found it very absorbing. Of course Mr. Watchman didn’t know me.”

“I see.”

Alleyn moved Abel’s best ink-pot from one side of the table to the other and stared thoughtfully at it.

“Mr. Legge,” he said at last, “how much did you have to drink on that Friday night?”

“Too much,” said Legge quickly. “I realize it now. Not so much as the others, but too much. I have a good head as a rule, a very good head. But unless he moved his finger, which I still think possible, I must have taken too much.”

He gave Alleyn a sidelong glance.

“I usually play my best,” said Mr. Legge, “when I am a little intoxicated. I must have overdone it. I shall never forgive myself, never.”

“How long was it,” Alleyn asked, “before you realized what had happened?”

“Oh, a very long time. I thought it must be tetanus. I’ve seen a man with tetanus. You see, I had forgotten about that dreadful stuff. I had forgotten that Mr. Pomeroy opened the cupboard that afternoon.”

“That was for—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Legge interrupted, again with that gesture of admonishment. “You’re going to remind me that he opened it to get the iodine for my face. Do you suppose that I can ever forget that? I was doubly the instrument. That’s what upsets me so dreadfully. He must have done something then, and accidentally got it on his fingers. I don’t know. I don’t pretend it’s not a mystery.” His face twitched dolorously. “I’m wretchedly unhappy,” he whispered. “Miserable!”

People with no personal charm possess one weapon, an occasional appeal to our sense of pathos. There was something intolerably pitiable in Legge; in his furtiveness, his threadbare respectability, his obvious terror, and his little spurts of confidence. Alleyn had a violent desire to get rid of him, to thrust him away as something indecent and painful. But he said: “Mr. Legge, have you any objections to our taking your fingerprints?”

The chair fell over as Legge got to his feet. He backed towards the door, turning his head from side to side and wringing his hands. Fox moved to the door, but Legge seemed unaware of him. He gazed like a trapped animal at Alleyn.

“Oh God!” he said. “Oh dear! Oh dear me! Oh God, I knew you’d say that!” and broke into tears.

ii

“Come now, Mr. Legge,” said Alleyn at last, “you mustn’t let the affair get on your nerves like this. If as you think, Mr. Watchman’s death was purely accidental, you have nothing to fear. There’s nothing very terrible in having your fingerprints taken.”

“Yes, there is,” contradicted Legge in a sort of fury. “It’s a perfectly horrible suggestion. I resent it. I deeply resent it. I most strongly object.”

“Very well, then,” said Alleyn placidly, “we won’t take them.”

Mr. Legge blew his nose violently and looked over the top of his handkerchief at Alleyn.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s all very well, but I know what tricks you’ll get up to. You’ll get them by stealth, I know. I’ve heard of the practices that go on in the police. I’ve studied the matter. It’s like everything else in a state governed by capitalism. Trickery and intimidation… You’ll give me photographs to identify and take my fingerprints from them.”

“Not now you’ve warned us,” said Alleyn.

“You’ll get them against my will and then you’ll draw false conclusions from them. That’s what you’ll do.”

“What sort of false conclusions?”

“About me,” cried Legge passionately, “about me.”

“You know that’s all nonsense,” said Alleyn quietly. “You will do yourself no good by talking like this.”

“I won’t talk at all. I will not be trapped into making incriminating statements. I will not be kept in here against my will!”

“You may go whenever you wish,” said Alleyn. “Fox, will you open the door?”

Fox opened the door. Legge backed towards it, but on the threshold he paused.

“If only,” he said with extraordinary intensity, “if only you’d have the sense to see that I couldn’t have done any thing, even if I’d wanted to. If only you’d realize that and leave me in peace. You don’t know what damage you may do, indeed you don’t. If only you would leave me in peace!”

He swallowed noisily, made a movement with his hands that was eloquent of misery and defeat, and went away.

Fox stood with his hand on the doorknob. “He’s gone back to the garage,” said Fox. “Surely he won’t bolt.”

“I don’t think he’ll bolt, Fox. Not in that car.” Fox stood and listened, looking speculatively at Alleyn.

“Well,” he said, “that was a rum go, Mr. Alleyn, wasn’t it?”

“Very rum indeed. I suppose you’re thinking what I’m thinking?”

“He’s been inside,” said Fox. “I’ll take my oath that man’s done his stretch.”

“I think so, too, and what’s more he had that suit before he went in. It was made by a decent tailor about six years ago, or more, and it was made for Mr. Legge. It fits him well enough and he’s too odd a shape for reach-me-downs.”

“Notice his hands?”

“I did. And the hair, and the walk, and the eyes. I thought he was going to sob it all out on my bosom. Ugh!” said Alleyn. “It’s beastly, that furtive, wary look they get. Fox, ring up Illington and ask Harper to send the dart up to Dabs. It’s got his prints. Not very nice ones, but they’ll do to go on with.”

Fox went off to the telephone, issued cryptic instructions, and returned.

“I wonder,” said Fox, “who he is, and what they pulled him in for.”

“We’ll have to find out.”

“He behaved very foolish,” said Fox austerely. “All that refusing to have his prints taken. We’re bound to find out. We’ll have to get his dabs, sir.”

“Yes,” agreed Alleyn, “on the sly, as he foretold.”

“I wonder what he’s doing out there,” said Fox.

“Wait a moment,” said Alleyn. “I’ll have a look.”

He stole into the passage. Legge had left the side door ajar and Alleyn could see the yard outside, flooded with moonshine. He slipped out and moved like a cat across the yard into the shadow of the garage door. Here he stopped and listened. From inside the garage came a rhythmic whisper, interrupted at intervals by low thuds, and accompanied by the sound of breathing. A metal door opened and closed stealthily, a boot scraped across stone. The rhythmic whisper began again. Alleyn stole away and recrossed the yard, his long shadow going fantastically before him.

When he rejoined Fox in the parlour he was grinning broadly.

“What’s he up to?” asked Fox.

“Being one too many for the infamous police,” said Alleyn. “He’s polishing his car.”

“Well, I’ll be blooming well blowed,” said Fox.

“He must have nearly finished. Switch off the light, Fox. It’d be a pity to keep him waiting.”

Fox switched off the light. He and Alleyn sat like shadows in the parlour. The Ottercombe town clock struck twelve and a moment later, the same dragging footsteps sounded in the yard. The side door was shut and the steps went past the parlour. The staircase light clicked and a faint glow showed underneath the door.

“Up he goes,” whispered Alleyn.

Legge went slowly upstairs, turned the light off, and moved along the passage above their heads. A door closed.

“Now then,” said Alleyn.

They went upstairs in the dark and slipped into Alleyn’s room, the first on the top landing. The upstairs passage was bright with moonlight.

“His is the end one,” murmured Alleyn. “He’s got his light on. Do you suppose he’ll set to work and wipe all the utensils in his room?”

“The thing’s silly,” whispered Fox. “I’ve never known anything like it. What’s the good of it? We’ll get his blasted dabs.”

“What do you bet me he won’t come down to breakfast in gloves?”

“He’s capable of anything,” snorted Fox.

“Sssh! He’s coming out.”

“Lavatory?”

“Possibly.”

Alleyn groped for the door and unlatched it.

“What are you doing, sir?” asked Fox rather peevishly.

“Squinting through the crack,” Alleyn whispered. “Now he’s come out of the lavatory.”

“I can hear that.”

“He’s in his pyjamas. He doesn’t look very delicious. Good Lord.”

“What?”

“He’s crossed the passage,” breathed Alleyn, “and he’s stooping down at another door.”

“What’s he up to?”

“Can’t see — shadow. Now he’s off again. Back to his own room. Shuts the door. Light out. Mr. Legge, finished for the night.”

“And not before it was time,” grumbled Fox. “They’ve got a nice sort of chap as Secretary and Treasurer for their society. How long’ll we give him, Mr. Alleyn? I’d like to have a look what he’s been up to.”

“I’ll give him ten minutes and then go along the passage.”

“Openly?”

“Yes. Quickly, but not stealthily, Fox. It’s the room on the right at the end. It looked almost as if he was shoving a note under the door. Very odd.”

“What age,” asked Fox, “is the Honourable Violet Darragh?”

“What a mind you have! It was probably young Pomeroy’s door.”

“I hadn’t thought of that, sir. Probably.”

Alleyn switched on the light and began to unpack his suit-case. Whistling soundlessly, he set his room in order, undressed, and put on his pyjamas and dressing-gown.

“Now then,” he said. He picked up his towel and spongebag and went out.

Fox waited, his hands on his knees. He heard a tap turned on. Water-pipes gurgled. In a distant room, someone began to snore in two keys. Presently Fox heard the pad of feet in the passage and Alleyn returned.

His towel was round his neck. His hair was rumpled and damp and hung comically over his eyes. He looked like a rather distinguished faun who had chosen to disguise himself in pyjamas and a dressing-gown. Between thumb and forefinger he held a piece of folded paper.

“Crikey, Fox!” said Alleyn.

“What have you got there, sir?”

“Lord knows! A threat? A billet-doux? Find my case, please, Fox, and get out a couple of tweezers. We’ll open it carefully. At least it may have his prints. Thank the Lord I brought that camera.”

Fox produced the tweezers. Alleyn dropped his paper on the glass top of the wash-stand. Using the tweezers, he opened it delicately. Fox looked over his shoulder and read ten words written in pencil.

“Crikey again!” said Alleyn. “An assignation.”

“Where did you get it, Mr. Alleyn?”

“Under the door. I fished for it with a hairpin I found in the bathroom. Luckily there was a good gap”

“Will Pomeroy’s door?”

“Does Will Pomeroy wear high-heeled shoes, size four-and-a-half, made by Rafferty, Belfast?”

“Lor’!” said Fox. “The Honourable Violet.”