“Well, I didn’t actually see it, not with my own eyes, since you’re that particular. But I did see that he’d opened a new packet of coffee which I’d left for him on the Saturday morning. So I nach’rally thought he must have had his coffee as usual before he met his fate, poor gentleman!”
“Was the sink in a rare mess when you saw it on the Monday morning?”
“Come to think of it — no, it wasn’t. I expect the local police washed up, knowing I’d be out of my mind with all that botheration.”
So Webber had not sold the set, nor otherwise disposed of it. Yet it had been missing. On the way back, Rason tried to work it out.
The murderer turns up with a gun and a portable typewriter, which he takes out of its case. He means to kill Webber and pinch his coffee set. He plugs Webber, thinks he’s killed him outright. He grabs the coffee set but forgets the typewriter. Webber taps out his S.O.S. on the typewriter. Before morning the murderer goes back for his typewriter — or it might after all be his comptometer — packs it in its case. If he hasn’t taken the coffee set on the first trip he takes it now. That would mean two hands employed, hindering his second getaway.
Rason was stimulated by his own nonsense. Whenever the facts proved that a desperate man was behaving like an imbecile child, it meant that one of the facts had slipped in upside down.
What was the upside-down of wanting a coffee set? You couldn’t say “not wanting it.” You had to say “wanting it not to exist.”
The next day he called at the Ashwinden Potteries.
“That set was designed for us by a man named Thane. He made a great many successful designs, but that one, I regret to say, was one of his few failures. The firm allowed him to buy it for a nominal sum. Here are the photographs and specification.”
“Very novel! Sort of Windsor Castle effect!” said Rason, meaning to be polite. “Can you give me Mr. Thane’s address?”
“He’s dead. His widow draws a pension from the firm. I could give you her address.”
Rason called on Isobel Habershon’s mother and heard the tragic story of the girl’s life and death. It was evening before he made contact with Detective Inspector Karslake.
“You were right, sir. Only it was coffee, not tea. I’m talking about the Webber case. I’ve got it all nicely buttoned up. If you’re tired, I’ll see to the arrest myself.”
“I wasn’t tired, but I am now.” Karslake demanded details. He listened with growing interest, nearly lapsed into an expression of approval.
“So you’d have made an arrest if I hadn’t stopped you! And what would you use instead of evidence?” As Rason looked glum, Karslake continued: “If he took that coffee set to destroy evidence he destroyed the evidence, meaning the coffee set. D’you think he’s keeping it in the drawing-room cabinet until you have time to call for it? Your next step, Rason, is to get Habershon’s fingerprints. If they correspond, we’ll talk to him. Here, I’d better come with you.”
In a year Habershon himself had changed a good deal. The hesitancy had become a mere mannerism. He was growing plump. The service maid returned his occasional greeting with increasing wintriness, due to her discovery of lipstick and even more definite evidence of a way of living of which she disapproved.
In the weeks that had followed the inquest his reborn courage enabled him to take stock of his position. He made a night trip to Holland for the purpose of dropping his revolver into the North Sea. When that had been accomplished he reckoned that he could deal with any questions that might be asked.
He was entertaining a fair friend in the drawing-room when Rason and Karslake called. While he was taking them into the dining-room, he had to make a definite effort of memory to marshal the items of his defense.
“I think, Mr. Habershon,” began Rason, “that you knew Francis Webber?”
“Well — er — yes. That is, I saw a lot of him at one time.”
“When did you last see him?”
“At his bungalow, round about eight o’clock on the night he was murdered.”
He had worked out that answer ten months ago. It was the opening gambit of Plan A, which dealt with routine inquiries. He saw the detectives exchange puzzled glances — which was in line with the plan. He continued:
“I did not come forward at the time as I could contribute nothing. And I had very strong reasons for remaining in the background. The fact that you have come here suggests you know that a good many years ago he eloped with my wife.”
“That was not a sufficient reason,” said Karslake severely. “We found unidentified fingerprints, which gave us a lot of trouble.”
“I’m very sorry. I was in his sitting-room for about five minutes. The prints are probably mine.”
“Very probably!” agreed Rason. “We’ll soon see.” It was Rason’s case. Karslake, though senior, produced the print-frame from his bag and instructed the excessively willing Habershon.
While Karslake was comparing Habershon’s prints with the chart of those taken in the bungalow, Rason asked:
“When you went into Webber’s sitting-room, did you notice any object that was familiar to you?”
That told Habershon that they were on the track of the Ashwinden set. Plan A of the defense assumed that the set would not be mentioned. The question brought Plan B into action — which was several points closer into the wind.
“I noticed a great many. All the furniture in the sitting-room and in the hall — I daresay throughout the bungalow — had belonged to my wife and was part of our home. It was indirectly on that account that I went to the bungalow. Please let me explain.
“I lost touch with Webber some fourteen — fifteen — years ago.” Habershon had written the explanation and memorized it last year: he must not make another slip over time. “I heard he had gone to Canada. My wife was dead and that unhappy chapter in my life was closed. In February last year Webber and I met in the City by chance. We recognized each other but did not speak.
“On April 5th when I returned home, he was waiting outside the garage here for me. He must have been waiting for hours. He told me that he still had my wife’s furniture and felt that he must return it to me if I would accept it. We were both civil, but not cordial. I said I did not want the furniture, but would like to have a certain coffee set which had personal associations. It had been designed by her father, who had been with Ashwinden Potteries.”
“Oh!” At this wholesale admission a sound like a wail came from Rason. Karslake grinned. “Go on, Mr. Habershon.”
“Webber, of course, agreed. I said I would not give him the trouble of packing it, but would collect it myself. We arranged that I should follow his car to the bungalow there and then. We arrived about eight.”
“What’s become of that coffee set?” asked Rason.
“Nothing. I have it in a cabinet in the drawing-room. I’ll get it, if you’d like to see it.”
Habershon went out, leaving the door open. Karslake spoke in an undertone.
“So far the evidence amounts to a grand total of nix! D’you remember your little piece about you making the arrest if I was too tired to help?”
From the hall came Habershon’s voice, speaking to the fair friend.
“No, no! There’s no need to go. When they’ve inspected this set, we shall have finished.”
Habershon put the set on the dining table. The coffee pot and the milk jug, looking like fragments of Windsor Castle; the sugar bowl; two surviving cups.
Rason sat down in front of it, took out the photograph and specification, to check. While doing so, he started a new line.
“You were commissioned in the Infantry in 1915, Mr. Habershon. Have you still got your revolver?”