way. He pulls a newspaper out of his pocket and points to the, photograph. “I hear you want information about this poor young man,”‘ he pipes up. “Yes, we do,” says the Super, “you know anything about it, Dad?”
“Nothing at all about his death,” says the old boy, “but I had a very curious little transaction with him three weeks ago,” he says, “and I thought you perhaps ought to know about it,” he says. “Quite right, Dad,” says the Super. “Go ahead.” So he went ahead and told us all about it.
‘It seems it was like this. You may remember seeing awhile ago not more than a month or so back — a bit in the papers about a queer old girl who lived all alone in a house in Seahampton with no companion except about a hundred cats. A Miss Ann Bennett — but the name don’t matter. Well, one day the, usual thing happens. Blinds left down, no smoke from kitchen, chimney, milk not taken in, cats yowling fit to break your heart. constable goes in with a ladder and finds the old lady dead in her bed. Inquest verdict is “death from natural causes”, which mean old “age and semi-starvation: with neglected pneumonia on top of it. And of course plenty of money in the house, including four hundred gold sovereigns in the mattress. It’s always happening.’
Wimsey nodded.
‘Yes. Well, then, the long-lost next-of-kin turns up and who should it be. but this old chap from Princemoor, Abel Bennett. There’s a will found, leaving everything to him, and begging him to look after the poor pussies. He’s the executor, and he steps in and takes charge. Very good. On the day after the inquest, along comes our young friend Paul Alexis — name correctly given and person identified by the photograph. He tells old Bennett a rambling kind of story about wanting gold sovereigns for some purpose or other. Something about wanting to buy a diamond from a foreign rajah who didn’t understand bank-notes — some bosh of that kind.’
‘He got that out of a book, I expect,’ said Wimsey. ‘I’ve seen something like it somewhere.’
‘Very likely. Old Bennett, who seems to have had more wits than his sister, didn’t swallow the tale altogether, because, as he said, the young, fellow didn’t look to him like a person who would be buying diamonds off rajahs, but after.all it’s not criminal to want gold, and it was none of his business what it was wanted for. He, put up a few objections, and Alexis offered him three hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, plus a twenty-pound bonus, in exchange for three hundred sovereigns. Old Abel wasn’t adverse to a buckshee twenty quid and was ‘ willing to hand over, on condition he might have the notes vetted for him at a Seahampton bank. Alexis was agreeable and pulled out the notes then and there. To cut a long story short, they went to the Seahampton branch of the London & Westminster and got the O.K. on the notes, after which Bennett handed over the gold and Alexis took it away in a leather hand-bag. And that’s all there is to it. But we’ve checked up the dates with the bank-people, and it’s quite clear that Alexis drew his money out here for the purpose of changing it into gold as soon as ever he saw the account of Ann Bennett’s death in the papers. But why he wanted it or what he did with it, I can’t, tell you, no more than the Man in the Moon.’
‘Well,’ said Wimsey, ‘I always knew there were one or two oddities about this case, but I don’t mind admitting that this beats me. Why on earth should anybody want to clutter himself up with all that gold? I suppose we can dismiss the story of the Rajah’s Diamond. A £300 diamond is nothing very out of the way, and if you wanted one you could buy it in Bond street, without paying in gold or dragging in Indian potentates.!
‘That’s a fact. Besides, where are you going to find a rajah who doesn’t understand Bank of England notes? These fellers aren’t savages, not by any means. Why, lots of them have been to Oxford.’
Wimsey made suitable acknowledgement of this tribute to his own university.
‘The only explanation that suggests itself to tile,’ he said,
’is that Alexis was, contemplating a, flitting to.some place where Bank of England notes wouldn’t pass current. But I hardly know where that could be at this time of day. Central Asia?’
‘It may not be that, my lord. From the, way he burnt everything before he left, it looks as though he didn’t mean to leave any trace of where he was going. Now, you can’t very well lose a Bank of England note. The numbers are bound to turn up somewhere or other, — , if you wait long enough. Currency notes are safe, but it, is quite possible that you might have difficulty in exchanging them in foreign parts, once you were off the beaten track. It’s my opinion Alexis meant to get away, and he took the gold because it was, the only form of money that will pass everywhere and tell no tale. He probably wouldn’t be asked about it at the Customs, and if, he was, they would be very unlikely to search him.’
True. I think you’re right, Inspector. But, I say, you realise this knocks the suicide theory on the head all right?’
‘It’s beginning to look like it, my lord,’ admitted Mr Umpelty, handsomely. ‘Unless, of course, the stuff was paid out to some party, in this country. For instance, suppose Alexis was being blackmailed by someone who wanted to skip. That party might be wanting gold for the very reasons we’ve been talking about, and he might get Alexis to do the job of getting it for him, so that he shouldn’t appear in it himself. Alexis pays up, and goes off the deep end and cuts his throat.’
‘You’re very ingenious,’ said Wimsey. ‘But I still believe I’m right, though if it is a case of murder, it’s been so neatly worked out that there doesn’t seem to be much of a loophole in it. Unless it’s the razor. Look here, Inspector, I’ve got an idea about that razor, if you’ll let me carry it out. Our one hope is to tempt the murderer, if there is one, into making a mistake by trying to be too clever.’
He pushed the glasses aside and whispered into the Inspector’s ear.
‘There’s something in that,’ said Inspector Umpelty. ‘I don’t see why it shouldn’t be tried. It may clinch the matter straight off, one way or another. You’d better ask the Super, but if he’s got no objection, I’d say, go ahead. Why not come round and put it to him straight away?’
On arriving at the police-station, Wimsey and the Inspector found the Superintendent engaged with a crabbed old gentleman in a fisherman’s jersey and boots, who appeared to be suffering under a sense of grievance.
‘Can’t a man take ’is own boat out when he likes and where he likes? Sea’s free to all, ain’t it?’
‘Of course it is, Pollock. But if you were up to no mischief, why take that tone about it? You aren’t denying you were there at the same time, are you? Freddy Baines swears he saw you.’
‘Them Bainses!’ grumbled Mr Pollock. ‘A nasty, peerin’, pryin’ lot. What’s it got to do with them where I was?’
‘Well, you admit it anyhow. What time did you get to the Flat-Iron?’
‘Per’aps Freddy Baines can tell you that, too. ’E zeems to be bloody free with his information.’
‘Never mind that. What time do you say it was?’
‘That ain’t no business of yours. Perlice ’ere, perlice there’—there ain’t no freedom in this blasted country. ‘Ave I or ’ave I not the right to go where I like? Answer me’ that’