residential. Cottages formerly lived in by agricultural labourers now converted and lived in by elderly spinsters and retired couples. A certain amount of building done round about in Victorian times.’
‘I know,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Nice old Pussies and retired Colonels. Yes, if they noticed that advertisement they’d all come sniffing round at 6.30 to see what was up. Lord, I wish I had my own particular old Pussy here. Wouldn’t she like to get her nice ladylike teeth into this. Right up her street it would be.’
‘Who’s your own particular Pussy, Henry? An aunt?’
‘No,’ Sir Henry sighed. ‘She’s no relation.’ He said reverently: ‘She’s just the finest detective God ever made. Natural genius cultivated in a suitable soil.’
He turned upon Craddock.
‘Don’t you despise the old Pussies in this village of yours, my boy,’ he said. ‘In case this turns out to be a high-powered mystery, which I don’t suppose for a moment it will, remember that an elderly unmarried woman who knits and gardens is streets ahead of any detective sergeant. She can tell you what might have happened and what ought to have happened and even what actually did happen! And she can tell you why it happened!’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, sir,’ said Detective-Inspector Craddock in his most formal manner, and nobody would have guessed that Dermot Eric Craddock was actually Sir Henry’s godson and was on easy and intimate terms with his godfather.
Rydesdale gave a quick outline of the case to his friend.
‘They’d all turn up at 6.30, I grant you that,’ he said. ‘But would that Swiss fellow know they would? And another thing, would they be likely to have much loot on them to be worth the taking?’
‘A couple of old-fashioned brooches, a string of seed pearls—a little loose change, perhaps a note or two—not more,’ said Sir Henry, thoughtfully. ‘Did this Miss Blacklock keep much money in the house?’
‘She says not, sir. Five pounds odd, I understand.’
‘Mere chicken feed,’ said Rydesdale.
‘What you’re getting at,’ said Sir Henry, ‘is that this fellow liked to play-act—it wasn’t the loot, it was the fun of playing and acting the hold-up. Cinema stuff? Eh? It’s quite possible. How did he manage to shoot himself?’
Rydesdale drew a paper towards him.
‘Preliminary medical report. The revolver was discharged at close range—singeing … h’m … nothing to show whether accident or suicide. Could have been done deliberately, or he could have tripped and fallen and the revolver which he was holding close to him could have gone off … Probably the latter.’ He looked at Craddock. ‘You’ll have to question the witnesses very carefully and make them say exactly what they saw.’
Detective-Inspector Craddock said sadly: ‘They’ll all have seen something different.’
‘It’s always interested me,’ said Sir Henry, ‘what people do see at a moment of intense excitement and nervous strain. What they do see and, even more interesting, what they don’t see.’
‘Where’s the report on the revolver?’
‘Foreign make—(fairly common on the Continent)—Scherz did not hold a permit for it—and did not declare it on coming into England.’
‘Bad lad,’ said Sir Henry.
‘Unsatisfactory character all round. Well, Craddock, go and see what you can find out about him at the Royal Spa Hotel.’
At the Royal Spa Hotel, Inspector Craddock was taken straight to the Manager’s office.
The Manager, Mr Rowlandson, a tall florid man with a hearty manner, greeted Inspector Craddock with expansive geniality.
‘Glad to help you in any way we can, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Really a most surprising business. I’d never have credited it—never. Scherz seemed a very ordinary, pleasant young chap—not at all my idea of a hold-up man.’
‘How long has he been with you, Mr Rowlandson?’
‘I was looking that up just before you came. A little over three months. Quite good credentials, the usual permits, etc.’
‘And you found him satisfactory?’
Without seeming to do so, Craddock marked the infinitesimal pause before Rowlandson replied.
‘Quite satisfactory.’
Craddock made use of a technique he had found efficacious before now.
‘No, no, Mr Rowlandson,’ he said, gently shaking his head. ‘That’s not really quite the case, is it?’
‘We-ll—’ The Manager seemed slightly taken aback.
‘Come now, there was something wrong. What was it?’
‘That’s just it. I don’t know.’
‘But you thought there was something wrong?’
‘Well—yes—I did … But I’ve nothing really to go upon. I shouldn’t like my conjectures to be written down and quoted against me.’
Craddock smiled pleasantly.
‘I know just what you mean. You needn’t worry. But I’ve got to get some idea of what this fellow, Scherz, was like. You suspected him of—what?’
Rowlandson said, rather reluctantly:
‘Well, there was trouble, once or twice, about the bills. Items charged that oughtn’t to have been there.’
‘You mean you suspected that he charged up certain items which didn’t appear in the hotel records, and that he pocketed the difference when the bill was paid?’
‘Something like that … Put it at the best, there was gross carelessness on his part. Once or twice quite a big sum was involved. Frankly, I got our accountant to go over his books suspecting that he was—well, a wrong ’un, but though there were various mistakes and a good deal of slipshod method, the actual cash was quite correct. So I came to the conclusion that I must be mistaken.’
‘Supposing you hadn’t been wrong? Supposing Scherz had been helping himself to various small sums here and there, he could have covered himself, I suppose, by making good the money?’
‘Yes, if he had the money. But people who help themselves to “small sums” as you put it—are usually hard up for those sums and spend them offhand.’
‘So, if he wanted money to replace missing sums, he would have had to get money—by a hold-up or other means?’
‘Yes. I wonder if this is his first attempt …’
‘Might be. It was certainly a very amateurish one. Is there anyone else he could have got money from? Any women in his life?’
‘One of the waitresses in the Grill. Her name’s Myrna Harris.’
