The Step In The House

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 464, 20 September 1928, Page 5

The Step In The House

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CHAPTER 111. They were both, sure of that. The back entrance of the shop communicated with a passage inside the house but facing the kitchen door; no one concealed in the shop could have got in without them hearing it in the kitchen, for the kitchen door was never shut, it was kept propped open with a flat iron for the convenience of Mrs. Beamish pottering in and out with her hands full. And when she wasn’t upstairs with her master she had been in the kitchen. She had gone straight down when the lawyer was with her master and had not left it again, neither she nor Sam, until Mr. Adams had come down the passage to tell them he was ready. Then they had followed him up and seen what he saw. Miss De Stair could not give evidence. She was ill. In any ease, as the coroner pointed out, her evidence could not be material. It was known that she had gone up to bed soon after fetching the doctor, and as she slept right at the top of the house no intruder would ha* r e disturbed her in making his entry. Dr. Richardson, who was attending her, said she was quite unable to attend the court, and the coroner did not think it necessary to adjourn for the sake of her presence. She had said she could not throw any light on the matter. She had heard nothing until she was terrified by the old servant’s scream.

He summed up deliberately, wasting no time making it plain to the twelve nervous individuals watching him anxiously what kind of verdict he expected from them. It was clear, he said, that the deceased had been murdered. The doctor’s evidence had placed the matter beyond a doubt. Someone had contrived in the lawyer’s brief absence to enter the bedroom and without rousing the patient, who was probably lying with closed eyes exhausted by the effort of making his wishes and intentions known to his professional adviser, had taken one of the pillows and thrust it down over his nose and mouth, holding it there until the old man was suffocated. He was no doubt too much enfeebled by hi 4 s illness and the reaction after his unusual and extraordinary exertion of the day before, to struggle. The curious thing was that the murderer had not removed the pillow after its work was done. That looked as if the deed had not been carefully plotted. One would expect a deliberate criminal to consider the possibility

Rina Ramsay

of disarming suspicion by leaving everything as natural in appearance as before. Perhaps—he was no medical expert—but perhaps if he had but the prudence to do that, foul play would not have been thought of. However, curious as the point was, it was no matter for them. Certainly the fact that the pillow had been found so, made it simpler for them to do their duty. He must remind them that there was no evidence before them connecting the crime with any known person, but if they believed the deceased was smothered on purpose it was their duty to return a verdict of wilful murder. “And that,” said Johnny Adams, under his breath, “leaves the way clear for the police.” He had slung his arm familiarly through the doctor’s, and was adjusting himself to the other man’s rapid stride. They had never really been intimate. To be sure, Richardson was comparatively a newcomer, and Johnny had his regular haunts and his pals. But this thing had brought them, in a way, together. As Johnny would have remarked, “You can’t be standoffish with a man who’s mixed up with you in a case of murder.” “I’ll come in with you and have a drink,” he said, as they reached the doctor’s own house. “I need it.” It was impossible to shake him off. They' passed in. eluded Mrs. Price, who was hovering in the hall, and who wanted desperately to discuss the inquest, and got into the doctor’s study at the back of the surgery. “She’s an awful woman, that,” said Johnny casually. “But I see she looks after you a hundred per cent, better than ever she looked after poor old Price. Did you ever hear that she was a barmaid before she married him? It’s rather a quaint story, and my fault really. The fact is, my old dad was a bit nervous about me those days—l used to call in at the Ship at Comberley too often —and he asked old Price, who had scores of patients out there, to find out if it was serious, and he called in once or twice to pry, and there’s no fool like an old fool. She let him think he could cut me out. She’s artful. I suppose now she’s setting her cap at you. Housekeeper and all that. Excellent—and a languishing look in her eye.” “Good Lord, no,” said Richardson. Johnny Adams looked at him sapiently. “Does she eat with you, or do you keep her at a distance?” “She has her own sitting room” said Richardson stiffly. He did not like that talk. He and this rakish

young lawyer had not much in common. He could just remember Johnny’s father, a prim precise little man, who had died lately. “All doctors ought to have wives; they’re so defenceless,” said Johnny sagely. “I’ll give you that advice without charging you 6s Bd. Do you want a tip for the races? A man I know—” he paused suddenly. “There, the good woman has gone away from the keyhole. I hope she liked what she heard of my conversation.” His face became serious. His voice changed completely. “Now,” he said, “what about this amazing business? You noticed the coroner, cunning fox —he’s an old hand at it; he’s not one of those who insist on dragging out all the clues to the surface and queer the pitch for the police to glorify themselves. You noticed how carefully he shepherded his jury? He had to check himself once—just once. There’d be fewer murders unsolved if the rest of ’em had his sense.” “What do you mean?” said the doctor. Johnny drank off his glass. “Oh,” he said, “we can be frank with each other when we are by ourselves. I grant yoq. it’s our part to be discreet with the outside public. You’re naturally a dumb fish. I’m not. But we both have to keep secrets in our professions ” “What do you mean?” said Richardson again. Johnny looked at him strangely. “We both of us kept something back,” he said. There was something very significant in his tone. He was staring hard at the doctor. With a kind of nervous giggle he leaned over and helped himself to another drink from the decanter between them on the study table. The syphon spluttered under his rather unsteady hand. “Who do you think did it?” he asked abruptly. “I don’t know,” said Richardson curtly. “It’s an insoluble puzzle as far as I am concerned.” “You mean that?” said Johnny. ‘“Look here, what you say to me goes no further. There’s no earthly reason why we should not discuss the matter privately. We are both men of the world.” “What are you driving at?” said Richardson. “Well,” said Johnny Adams, choosing his words, and watching the other man’s face, “there was one detail I did not mention in my evidence this afternoon. I did not say that when I arrived at Dodds’s house that night, and Sam told me to go right up, I I nearly stumbled on the old chap’s niece—l suppose she calls herself—-

on the staircase. You know that top staircase. She was sitting on the bottom step of it, close to the bedroom door.” He paused a minute to let his suggestion sink in. “I did not mention that,” he said. “I had to consider my own position. Since the will was not executed before he died, and she becomes automatically his heir, I’d be a fool and a lunatic to risk losing the whole business of the old man’s estate by displeasing her. It would never have done for me personally to call attention to anything embarrassing to a future client.” “But why shouldn’t she sit there?” said Richardson impatiently. “She was anxious. And he wouldn’t let her into the room.” “No,” said Johnny, “he wouldn’t, and she knew he wouldn’t. Didn’t she? She must have guessed it was not to her advantage that he should live to make that will ” “Good Lord— —” said the doctor. “Besides,” said Johnny, “the old chap was talking. I have no doubt she overheard enough.” He leaned forward, emphasising his points by tapping with his fingers on the table. For the first time Richardson became really sure that he disliked Johnny Adams. The undefined feeling that had made him backward in meeting the other man’s advances grew all at once strong enough to be recognised. He did not like him. “Come,” Johnny was arguing with a certain eagerness that was anything but dispassionate. Richardson put down his excitement rather to a morbid interest in the crime than to the lawyer's instinct to push his case. “Come, doctor, what’s the first thing the detectives look for?—motive. Who on earth had any motive in preventing the old chap from making the will

besides that girl? And the modern young woman, in spite of her dabs of powder, whitewashing herself all | the time, she’s deep. She sticks at nothing. She’s acquired the nerve to do anything that comes into her head in knocking about the world. What do we know about this one? She’s landed among us, as you might say, from nowhere. She’d no cause to be fond of the old chap, who had tried hard not to make her welcome, who’d done all he could to show her he didn’t want her, short of turning her into the street. He was a stranger to her. Why, she’d only been in his house two days—l daresay she’s had the kind of life that embitters. I daresay she was brought up to feel that if he’d only helped her people instead of quarrelling with them 20 years ago it would have been different. He was a cantankerous old party, Dodds, but I don’t know anybody else who stood to profit by putting him out of the world just then. I’m not accusing her, mind—l would not do that — but she looked just that kind. A Frenchy little white face, leaning forward there with her hands clenched under her chin, half in darkness. You ; could quite easily imagine her giving i way to an uncontrollable impulse. ' She’s a passionate little thing.” He looked over to Richardson tri- ! umphantly, as if challenging him to ! attempt to demolish the picture he 1 was conjuring up of how the terrible i thing had happened. The doctor had ! got up suddenly. Somehow, Johnny’s ! suggestion, plausible as it sounded, was abhorrent to him. He could nor sit quiet under it.

“No,” he said, “she didn’t do Itj it's not possible, man. I’d sooner suspect you.” Johnny Adams jumped in his chair. “Me?” he said. “Me?” His visible agitation restored Richardson’s good humour. He even wondered slightly at his own heat. “Why not?” he said. “The coroner, as you said, was uncommonly diplomatic. He did not press the point that you were the last person known to see Dodds alive. It can’t be proved that anybody was with him after you left him. You are in a very awkward position, you know, really. I am afraid you will have the detectives at your heels rather sooner than the rest of us. They will argue in all sorts of uncomfortable ways, I daresay, to find a motive.” “What possible motive could I have,” said Johnny, “to do him in?” But he was shaken —visibly shaken. “How do I know?” said the doctor. “All sorts of Inadequate motives affect people on occasions—you find that out. in my profession. Those detectives you talk of might think you had got into a muddle with the old man's business, and did not like the nuisance of having a man to look into things rather than a girL You might have a violent temper. You might have quarrelled with him and snatched up the pillow ” “That’ll do,” said Johnny, with a sickly smile. “Don’t carry the joke too far.” He was silent a moment, digesting the thrust. His confusion was almost pitiable. (To be continued.)