The Attic Murder - S. Fowler Wright (ebook reader computer TXT) 📗

in Sir Reginald’s office, with no excess of cordiality on either side, that they had come to the same decision as to the identity of the wanted man.

In arriving at this conclusion it was already evident that Mr. Banks had had the benefit of the knowledge of some circumstances of the crime of which the Inspector had not been equally well informed, but if we regard the matter with an entire impartiality we must observe also that Mr. Banks had not had the benefit of hearing Sir Lionel Tipshift’s opinion that the crime had been the work of a left-handed man.

It was after Miss Weston had completed a narrative which may be conveniently deferred, as it was given with greater precision in the witness-box on a later day, that Mr. Banks said “Well, I don’t know what you think, Inspector, but I should say that you won’t have to look farther than the top floor of number seven to find the man that you want.”

“Meaning Entwistle?”

“Meaning Long Pete, of course. That’s what he’s mostly called in his own crowd.”

The Inspector was aware of the name usually applied to Peter Entwistle in the criminal circles that were supposed to make use of his skill. But he dissented from the enquiry agent’s description.

“His own crowd?” he said. “You can’t say there’s any to which he really belongs. That’s been what’s kept him clear of our hands for the last ten years, and he making a fortune the while, at a safe guess. He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t gamble, he doesn’t mix with any of the gangs among whom we may have one or two who know how to give us the information we want at the right time; and so he’s kept out of our hands for more years than one of his kind probably ever did since we’ve been an organized force.”

“The gentleman,” Sir Reginald interrupted, “seems to be an interesting character. Do you mind telling me what his occupation is supposed to be, and why you conclude that he’s the most likely man to have murdered a bank inspector four doors away?”

Inspector Combridge answered: “It’s a matter of deduction, of course. I’m not sure that we’ve got evidence enough even to justify an arrest. But that’s been the difficulty with Mr. Entwistle since I heard of him first in connection with the Bradwell forgeries, nearly ten years ago.

“He’s a handwriting expert, and an artist in more ways than one. He taught engraving for two years at a Municipal Technical School in North London, and since he gave that up he’s been doing landscape painting — actually sold one or two pictures, I believe, for moderate amounts.

“But his main occupation, if he isn’t a greatly misjudged man, is that of forging cheques and other documents.

“He does just that, and no more. He won’t mix himself up in procuring specimen signatures, or passing the documents, or — in fact, in anything but the actual use of his pen, and it’s said that he only asks a ten per cent commission on the face value of the cheques he forges, but he insists on that, cash down at the time, and won’t listen to other terms.

“It follows that he only deals with those gangs that are well-established and well-financed, and you can see that if he does nothing to give himself away he isn’t easy to catch.

“We’ve laid traps for him more than once, but he’s been too wary to walk in; and we’ve tried, without any success, to get someone to give him away.

“The curious thing about him is that he’s ambidextrous. He’s called left-handed, but that’s not exactly correct. He can imitate some signatures with his right hand, and some with his left; and, with one or other, he’ll sign your name so that you’ll swear it’s genuine yourself, though you can’t remember writing it.

“He’s never made any secret of that capacity — boasts of it, in fact — and of course it’s no crime to be expert with a pen; and being so open about it is in his favour rather than not. But we’ve known what he’s done more than once, and only been just short of the legal proof which would have justified an arrest.”

“You mean,” Sir Reginald replied, “the forging of cheques, such as those which have been causing such losses to us?”

“Yes. It’s never been less than an even guess that they were his work, and it’s ten to one now.”

“But how far does that connect him with Rabone’s death?”

“It’s only inference, as I’ve said. But here’s a man leaving Rabone’s window immediately after he’s killed, and Miss Weston follows this man — though she can’t say who he was — to the window of the house where Entwistle lives. And there’s a man named Bigland on the floor below him, who was wide awake enough to hear her feet going down the stairs, when she escaped by the same way, but didn’t hear anyone who would have had a much heavier tread.

“And there’s the fact that Rabone had visitors before who came to him over the roof, and from where else would they be? We can’t suppose that it was a general habit in that street to make midnight calls on Mr. Rabone over the slates.

“When you add to that the conspiracy that Rabone was either engaged in himself or on the point of discovering — you can read this letter either way, but it’s got to be one of the two — and the occupation by which we’ve no doubt that Entwistle lives, and you’ve got the kind of case with which we usually have to begin. We know the fact well enough, and we’ve just got to settle down on it till we’ve built up the formal proof that the law requires.

“I don’t say that we’ve got it yet, by a long way, especially as there’s no legal evidence of motive of a kind that we should be allowed to mention in court, but there’s one point that helps a little, and that is that Sir Lionel’s almost sure that it was the work of a left-handed man, who attacked Rabone from behind.”

“Well,” Mr. Banks commented on this somewhat lengthy statement of the official attitude, “if that isn’t enough to justify you in laying him by the heels, I must say you’re not easy to please.”

“Perhaps I’m not. But it seems that we’ve got to own up to one mistake already, and that’s more than enough. We can’t risk an acquittal for lack of evidence, on the top of that, or perhaps even a discharge from the Magistrates’ Court.”

“I thought,” Sir Reginald interposed again, “that it was a theory at the Yard that criminals always keep to their own type of offence. Is Mr. Entwistle supposed to be equally addicted to violent murder and forging cheques? The combination’s rather unusual, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the Inspector admitted frankly, “so we do; and so, no doubt, it is. And if this were a crime committed under rather different circumstances, I should say it would let Entwistle out. If it were a case of violent homicide in the course of a burglary, for instance, we shouldn’t give him a thought.

“But you’ve got to consider the position of a very cautious and successful criminal who’s avoided all contact with the law, as very few criminals do, and who (we may suppose) suddenly finds himself in desperate peril because Rabone’s going to squeal, and he takes the one course that remains. It’s a crime that grows naturally, so to speak, from what he has done before, however different its kind.

“He must be an exceptionally wily and cool-blooded character, or he wouldn’t have walked free as long as he has.

“And you think” — Sir Reginald’s tone was still doubtful — ” that this murder was planned in a way that makes it look consistent with what his character’s likely to be? There’s not much discretion in changing a risk of being arrested for forgery for a seat in the condemned cell.”

“Perhaps not. But he couldn’t guess that Miss Weston would be hopping out on to the roof. And as to the condemned cell — well, he’s not there yet!”

It was a statement which Sir Reginald could not dispute. But he saw reason to hope that the Inspector’s diagnosis of the position was correct, for, if so, he might have a sound expectation that the losses that his bank had suffered during recent years would have reached an end, and that in a way which he much preferred — without the publicity which a prosecution on the direct issue would have involved.