Hannasyde's brows went up as he read, for the record was one of petty rogueries, culminating in a sentence of eighteen months' imprisonment for false pretences. "This is certainly unexpected," he said.
"Doesn't fit at all, does he?" agreed the Sergeant. "That's what I thought."
Hannasyde was studying the portrait. "Flashy-looking fellow. Hair probably artificially waved. All right, Sergeant: I can see you're bursting with news. Let's have it.
"Newton handled his case," said the Sergeant. "He doesn't know much about him, beyond his little lapses. Young waster with no background, and a taste for hitting the high spots. Dances and sings a bit; been on the stage, but not what you'd call noticeably; at one time did the gigolo act at a cheap dance-hall in the East End; seems to have gone pretty big with the ladies: you know the type. Not in the late Ernest's walk of life at all. In fact, I was just thinking I'd hit on the greatest discovery of the age, which was that Bertillon had made a mistake after all, when Newton said something that opened out a whole new vista before me."
"Well?"
"He said that at the time of his arrest, which took place, as you'll notice, in November of 1934, Charlie was living with an actress - that means front row of the Beauty Chorus - of the name of Angela Angel!"
Hannasyde looked up. "Angela Angel? Wasn't there a case about a year ago to do with a girl called Angela Angel? Suicide, wasn't it?"
"It was," said the Sergeant. "Sixteen months ago, to be precise." He opened the case in which he had borne Ernest Fletcher's papers away from Greystones, and picked up a photograph that was lying on the top of a pile of documents. "And that, Super, is Angela Angel!"
Hannasyde took the photograph, and recognised it at once as the one which had struck an elusive chord of memory in the Sergeant's brain earlier in the day.
"As soon as Newton mentioned the name, which he only did because of the girl having been a case herself, poor kid, I remembered," said the Sergeant. "Jimmy Gale was in charge of her little affair, which was how I came to hear a bit about it at the time. Did herself in for no particular reason that anyone ever discovered. She wasn't in trouble, she'd got a job in the chorus of the cabaret show at Duke's, and quite a bit of money put by in the bank. All the same, she stuck her head in a gas oven one night. Well, looked at as a case, there was nothing to it. But there were points which interested Gale in a mild sort of a way. For one thing, she didn't leave any letter behind, explaining why she'd done it, which, in Gale's experience, was unusual. Nine times out of ten a suicide'll leave a letter behind which'll make some poor devil feel like a murderer for the rest of his life, whether he deserves to or not. She didn't. What's more, they never found out what her real name was. She even opened her bank account under the name of Angela Angel. She didn't seem to have any relations, or if she had they never came forward to claim her; and she wasn't, by all accounts, one of those who tell their girlfriends the whole story of their lives. None of the rest of the chorus knew much about her when it came to the point. But what they did know was that about seven or eight months before she killed herself she got off with a very nice gentleman, who set her up in style in a smart flat with the usual trimmings."
"Fletcher?"
"Taking one thing with another, and adding up a few simple figures, that's what it looks like, Chief. Not that I've got his name yet, for I haven't. There are two girls still dancing at Duke's who were there in Angela's time, but they neither of them seem to think they ever heard what her boy-friend's real name was. All they could think of was Boo-Boo, which was what she called him, but which doesn't sound to me the sort of name any self respecting man would put up with except from a girl he happened to have gone nuts over. So that's not much help."
"Any description?"
"Yes, he was middle-aged, dark, thin, and natty. The late Ernest to the life. A lot of other people to the life too, if you come to think of it, but it'll do to go on with. Well, as I say, he set Angela up in the best of style, and she chucked dancing for a life of gilded leisure. That was a matter of six months after friend Charlie had gone to gaol. Nothing more was heard of Angela at Duke's for the next six months, which brings us to the end of December 1935, when she turned up again, wanting her old job back."
"Cast off?"
"That," said the Sergeant guardedly, "is the inference, but the fair Lily -'
"Who?"
"One of the chorus. She stated at the time, and today, when I saw her, that Angela was as close as an oyster about the whole business. Sifting the grain from the chaff, which isn't as easy as you might think when Lily starts talking, I came to the conclusion that the late Ernest (or substitute) was by way of being the great passion of Angela's life. Only he'd cooled off. But taking into account the fact that she wasn't in trouble, and had quite a bit of money put by, I'm bound to say it looks to me as though he didn't treat her so badly. However, the fair Lily sticks to it that she'd got a broken heart, and couldn't seem to fancy any of the other fellows who were floating around. After a couple of months she decided she couldn't live without the late Ernest, so she put her head in a gas oven, and that was the end of her."
"Poor girl! The more I discover about Fletcher the less I like him."
"Now, be fair, Chief!" begged Hemingway. "This isn't one of your seduction rackets. If Angela didn't know what was likely to happen she ought to have. But that's neither here nor there. What I want to know is, where and how does Charlie Carpenter fit into the scenario?"
"Have you been able to discover anything about his movements since he was released from prison? When exactly was that?" He consulted the dossier on the desk. "June 1936! A year ago, in fact. What's he been up to all this time?"
"You can search me," said the Sergeant. "He hasn't got pinched for anything, that's all I can tell you. Funny, isn't it? If he was out to pull a big revenge act, what's he want to wait a year for?"
Hannasyde looked at the photograph again. "Revenge? Does he give you that impression?"
"No, he doesn't. Silly, weak kind of face, and by all accounts he was a selfish young bounder, not given to putting himself out for anyone but himself. No, what it looks like to me, at first glance, is an attempt to put the black on the late Ernest. Not much of an attempt either, which is about what you'd expect, judging from his record."
"Yes," Hannasyde agreed. "And then we come up against the murder."
"Slap up against it," nodded the Sergeant. "And it doesn't fit."
"Several loose ends somewhere. He fits the description given by Glass and Mrs. North, though - but I admit they were too vague to be of much use."
"Oh, so Mrs. North was there, was she?"
"She was there, and unless I am much mistaken she thinks it was her husband who killed Fletcher."
The Sergeant opened his eyes at that. "You do see life in the suburbs, don't you? Nice goings-on! Whatever does Ichabod say about it?"
"As I haven't told him anything about it, he hasn't yet favoured me with his opinion."
"You wait till he gets wind of it. He'll learn a whole new piece to say to us. But this line on Mrs. North's husband is very confusing. What's been happening your end, Chief?"
Hannasyde gave him a brief account of his two interviews with Helen North. The Sergeant listened in silence, his bright, penetrating eyes fixed on his superior's face with an expression in them of gradually deepening disgust.
"What did I tell you?" he said, when Hannasyde had finished. "The whole stage is getting cluttered up with supers. I'll tell you something else, too; by the time we're through we shall have had just about all we can stand of this North woman. I wouldn't mind betting she thinks we've got nothing better to do than run round in circles while she gets on with this three-act problem play of hers. I'm surprised at you, Chief, letting yourself get dragged into her differences with her husband. What's more, where's the sense of her hiding all this IOU business from him? He's bound to find out in the end."