Mrs Morecambe smiled graciously. Well, Mr Morecambe was at home, as it happened. He had not, been very well, lately, but no doubt he would be ready to, assist the Inspector if it was really necessary. She would ask him to come down.
Inspector Umpelty indicated that this was not really necessary. He would be happy to accompany Mrs Morecambe to her husband’s room. At which precaution Chief Inspector Parker smiled: any necessary arrangements; between the Morecambes would surely have been perfected by this time.
Mrs Morecambe led the way to the door, followed by Mr Umpelty. She glanced round as though expecting Parker to follow, but he kept his seat. After a momentary hesitation, Mrs Morecambe went out, leaving her second guest to his own devices. She went upstairs, with the Inspector padding behind her, murmuring apologies and trying to keep his boots from making a noise.
The room they entered on the first floor was furnished as a study, and beyond it, another door, half-open, led into a bedroom. At a table in the study sat a small, red-bearded man, who turned sharply to face them at their entrance.
‘My dear,’ said Mrs Morecambe, ‘this is Inspector Umpelty of the Wilvercombe police. He wants to know something about the car.’
‘Oh, yes, Inspector, what is it?’ Mr Morecambe spoke genially, but his geniality was as nothing compared to the genially of the Inspector.’
‘Hullo, Bright, my man!’ said he. ‘Risen a bit in the world since I last saw you, haven’t you?’
Mr Morecambe raised his eyebrows, glanced at his wife, and then broke into a hearty laugh.
‘Well done, Inspector!’ said he. ‘What did’ I tell you, dear? You can’t deceive our fine British police-force. With his usual acumen,’ the man has spotted me! Well, sit down, Inspector and have a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
Umpelty cautiously lowered his large form into a chair and accepted a whisky-and-soda.
‘First of all, congratulations on your sleuthing,’ said ‘Mr Morecambe, cheerfully. ‘I thought I’d got rid of that fellow in Selfridge’s, but I suppose the other fellow with the quick change headgear managed to keep on the scent, in spite of my artistic camouflage in the Cinema. Well, now, I suppose you want to know why Alfred Morecambe, commission-agent of London, was going about at Wilvercombe disguised as William Bright, that seedy and unsatisfactory tonsorial artist. I don’t blame you. I daresay it does look queerish. Well, to start with — here’s the explanation.’
He gathered up a number of sheets of paper from his writing-table and pushed them across to Umpelty.
‘I’m writing a play for my wife,’ he said. ‘You have no doubt discovered that she was the famous Tillie Tulliver before she,married. I’ve written a play or two before, under the name of Cedric St Denis spare-time work; you know — and this new one deals with the adventures of an itinerant hairdresser. The best way to pick up local colour, is to go and get it personally.’
‘I see, sir.’
‘I ought to have told you all this at the time,’ said Mr Morecambe, with a frank air of apology, ‘but it really didn’t seem necessary. As a matter, of fact, I felt it would make me look a bit of a fool in the City. I was supposed to be taking a holiday for my health, you see, and if my partner had known what I was really up to, he might; have been a little annoyed. In any case, you had my evidence, which was all that was really necessary — and I must admit that I rather enjoyed playing the ne’er-do-well to all you people. I did it rather well, don’t you think? Thanks to my wife’s coaching, of course.’
‘I see, sir.’ Inspector Umpelty fastened promptly on the salient point of all this. ‘Your account of your meeting with Paul Alexis was a fact, then?’
‘Absolutely true in every particular. Except, of course, that I never really had the slightest intention of committing suicide. As a matter of fact, the: idea of passing the night in one of the lodging-houses appropriate to my impersonation didn’t greatly; appeal to me at that moment, and I was putting off the evil hour as long as. possible. It’s quite true that I made up a hard-luck story for Alexis — though I didn’t. actually take any, money from the poor fellow. I drew, the line at that. The pound-note I paid out that night was my own — But you nearly tied me up over that business about the tide. I rather over-reached myself there with all that picturesque detail.’ He laughed again.
‘Well, well,’ said the Inspector. ‘You’ve led us a fine dance, sir.’ He glanced at the manuscript sheets in his hands, which appeared, so far as he could make out, to substantiate Morecambe’s story. ‘It’s a pity you didn’t take us into your confidence, sir. We could probably have arranged for nothing — to come out about it in the press. However — if I take a fresh statement from you now, that will clear that up all right.’
He cocked his head for a moment as though listening, and then went on rapidly:
‘I take it, that statement will just confirm the evidence you gave at the inquest? Nothing to add to it in any way?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘You never, for instance, came across this Mr Henry Weldon at any time?’
‘Weldon?’’
‘The man I gave the lift to,’ prompted Mrs Morecambe, ‘whose mother was engaged to the dead man.’
‘Oh him? Never saw him in my, life. Don’t suppose I’d recognise him now if I saw him. He didn’t give evidence, did’ he?’
‘No, sir. Very good, then. If you like, I will take a statement from you now. I’ll just call in my colleague, if you don’t mind, to witness it’
The Inspector threw open the door. Chief Inspector Parker must have been waiting on the landing, for he marched in at once, followed by a respectable-looking working-woman and a large, stout man smoking a cigar. The Inspector kept his eye on the Morecambes. The wife looked merely surprised, but Morecambe’s face changed.
‘Now, Mrs Sterne,’ said Parker, ‘have you ever seen this gentleman before?’
‘Why, yes, sir; this is Mr Field, as was staying with Mr Weldon down at Fourways in February. I’d know him any where.’
‘That’s who he is, is he?’ said the stout gentleman. ‘I thought it might be Potts or Spink. Well, Mr Maurice Vavasour, did you give the little Kohn girl a show after all?’
Mr Morecambe opened his mouth, but no sound came. Inspector Umpelty consulted the Scotland Yard man by a glance, cleared his throat, took his courage in both hands, and advanced upon his prey:
‘Alfred Morecambe,’ he said, ‘alias William Bright, alias William Simpson, alias Field, alias Cedric St Denis, alias Maurice Vavasour, I arrest you for being concerned in the murder of Paul Alexis Goldschmidt, otherwise Pavlo Alexeivitch, and I warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence at your triaclass="underline" ’
He wiped his forehead.
Alibi or no alibi, he had burnt his boats.
Chapter XXXIII. The Evidence Of What Should Have Happened