Chapter XIX

  “ MY dear editor is very pleased with my last article,” said Ned, as he and Nancy walked down Bond Street next day. “He says half his highbrow readers have been congratulating him. And all because I reinforced my stuff with slabs from Professor Madle’s Influence of Psychopathic Neuroses on The Criminal Instinct , in the original German.”

  “But I didn’t know you knew German, old thing?” said Nancy.

  “I don’t. Surely, though, you know that the public loves a foreign language? Why, a man can pig it abroad in an estaminet or albergo . If he was in the same place at home, he would call it a ‘dirty pub.’ A rose with a foreign name smells twice as sweet.”

  “I wish we could get on with the case, though,” Nancy said.

  “It’s all because of the mathematicians, and their beastly habit of sticking X in equations,” he returned. “X is the chap who is holding us up here. Just consider how few suspects we have. Myself for one; Hench, two; Mrs. Hoing, three, and loathly X, four.”

  “I suppose Mrs. Hoing must come in?” said Nancy. “She was in touch with Mr. Habershon.”

  He nodded. “Of course. I have been considering Brews’s point about the coffee, and I think it is good common-sense observation. There is no doubt that people who make a hobby of something do tell you about it. The man who smokes a weird tobacco and asks you to try some always tells you how he discovered it. Mr. Habershon must have talked about his Brazilian friend so much that the housekeeper knew all about it. There was no need for her to tell you how particular he was about it, or where he got it.”

  “I rather thought that at the time, old thing, but I couldn’t see any relevance in it.”

  “No, I expect not, at that stage. But this is how I have been arguing. According to Mrs. Hoing’s tale, Habershon must have said something like this to her: ‘You know, Mrs. Hoing, I am very particular about my coffee. I like Brazilian best, but not the ordinary Brazilian. The stuff they sell you is as like it as “Russian Blend” cigarettes are to Russian. Please make my coffee carefully. It’s expensive stuff that a friend sends me direct from Brazil.’”

  “Or words to that effect,” said Nancy, laughing, as they turned into Piccadilly.

  “Absolutely. Then he sees Hench, and offers the little man a pound. If he acts like any other human being with a similar hobby, he won’t say: ‘Here’s a pound of coffee, old chap!’ He will say: ‘You must try some of my coffee. I am very particular about it, and get it sent to me, etc.’ What do you think?”

  She reflected, then nodded. “People do go on like that. But what does it mean here?”

  “Well, little Hench thinks it may be Brazilian coffee, but he is not impressed, and he doesn’t know where Habershon got it from, or that Habershon is accustomed to making a song about it. That suggests two alternatives to me. Either Habershon did not make a song about it, or get it from a friend in Brazil, or Hench bought the coffee himself. If he bought it himself, we may suspect that he doctored some coffee that night, put it in an identical flask—I mean the same size and shape as that carried by Habershon—and doped Rainy and Miss Rowe. If it was actually sent from Habershon’s, while at the same time no attempt was made to prove to him that this was Heaven’s own nectar, sent by a pal of H’s from Brazil, then we may suspect that the coffee was sent not by Habershon, but by Mrs. Hoing.”

  Nancy stared. “Much thinking has made thee mad, Ned!”

  He smiled. “The people at the back of those murders are cunning as they make ’em. It was a fake suicide, but I imagine them long-headed enough to erect a second line of defence in case the first failed. If mention of the use in the Habershon household of Brazilian coffee did not lead the police to believe that old Habershon doctored the thermos and destroyed his wards, the fact that Hench used the same coffee might enable them to stick the crime on Hench—the only local who knew Habershon, and was in touch with him. It’s only a theory so far, but I vote we go into the business of investigating it now. So we’ll turn about and take a ’bus to Bloomsbury.”

  “And what then?” asked Nancy, somewhat impressed.

  “Well, I suspect the friend in Brazil may be a figment of Mrs. Hoing’s imagination. If she wanted to impress the Brazilian origin of the coffee on your mind, she might have got up that story. If she is at the back of the plot, Mr. Habershon and his doctored coffee is the strong point to push.”

  “But why suspect her at all?” Nancy asked, as they got into a ’bus.

  “Because there are several fishy things in her evidence, as I see it. On investigation the fishiness may disappear, but we must make sure one way or the other. In the first place, beyond a vague remark made by the weed Jimmy Huston, Mrs. Hoing is the only one who really furnishes evidence that there was serious trouble between Habershon and his wards. Secondly, she stresses the point we have been discussing; the coffee. Next, as I heard from you, she took the theory of dope having been used as if it was quite likely——”

  “But Brews’s colleague had evidently gone into the question of the mordinal,” said Nancy. “He may have asked her about it. In fact he would have done, as she was the chief person in the house.”

  Ned looked doubtful. “I am sure Brews’s man did ask her, but I am inclined to think that his inquiries were made after you had seen Mrs. Hoing. I can check that easily. Meantime, we must follow common practice. Leave out the picture of Mrs. Hoing guilty, and think of her as Mrs. Hoing innocent—the respectable, decent housekeeper and trusted family servant, with nothing to hide. You come along and ask her about possible dope, say mordinal. The normal woman with no axe to grind would, I think, reply that it was funny you had mentioned it, since that was what the policeman had been questioning her about. Do you agree?”

  Nancy nodded vigorously. “I think you are right.”

  “I think so too. I am taking it that she, in her anxiety to show that Mr. Habershon had staged two suicides, which were really murders, assented readily to your suggestions and told you that Mr. Habershon had had mordinal.”

  “But she may have been in it with Habershon?” said Nancy.

  “Or Hench, or X,” he agreed. “All I say is that Mrs. Hoing must be watched. In her evidence at the inquest she says that Mr. Habershon went for a drive with his wards. When you interview her, it turns out that Mr. Habershon did not leave the house in the car, but walked to the garage——”

  “But she told me to inquire at the garage.”

  “Quite. And at the garage you got corroborative evidence that Mr. Habershon was carrying the thermos flask which, on our theory, was presumed to be doped. But the fact is that Mrs. Hoing gave the court the impression that Habershon had started from home in the car with his wards. Actually she tells you later that he left afoot, that he must have gone to the garage for his car, and that she deduced the joint drive, and the presence of the nephew and niece, from the fact that she had been asked to put coffee for three in the flask. She’s more of a swell at deduction than most housekeepers of my acquaintance.”

  “It does look rather thin,” Nancy admitted.

  “Very much so. But don’t take it that I feel sure she was in the game. The coffee, if we can get on the track of it, may be a help. I wonder where she shops?”

  “She went round to Oxford Street the morning I called,” said Nancy.

  “We’ll have a glance at Gale Street first,” said he. “We get off here.”

  They had walked half-way up Gale Street, and were within fifty yards of the crossing, when a tall man in a blue suit emerged from Mr. Habershon’s house, and came towards them. Ned pulled Nancy up. He was pretty sure that the man was one of Brews’s emissaries, from his style and bearing.

  “I’m going to have a word with this chap, Nance,” he whispered, and waited till the man came up.

  “Well, sir?” said he of the blue suit, as Ned approached and stopped him. “What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing, thank you, old chap,” said Ned, promptly. “But I think you can put in a job of work for Inspector Brews, if you are not too busy. Saw you at the Upperton inquest, didn’t I?”

  The detective bit his lip. “May I ask your name, sir?”

  “Edward Hope. Brews and I are great friends, my dear fellow. Ask him if we aren’t.”

  The detective looked thoughtful. “Well, sir, what is it?”

  Ned smiled. “Ask at the post-office, which sends parcels round to Gale Street if they have ever delivered parcels from Brazil to the late Mr. Habershon’s house. Tell Brews what they say, and ask him if he will be kind enough to let me know.”

  The detective had seen Ned at the inquest. He nodded. “Very well, sir. Is that all?”

  “Telephone Brews first, if you like, for his permission. That’s all. I am much obliged to you.”

  “Not at all, sir,” said the detective, saluted, and moved away.

  “Parcels of coffee?” inquired Nancy, a moment later.

  “Certainly not nuts,” replied Ned. “Now back to Oxford Street and district. We are going to ask if we can get any of the splendid Brazilian coffee Mr. Habershon liked so much. If I do one shop, and you another, we may come on it before teatime.”

  “There aren’t many grocers in Oxford Street,” said Nancy.

  “The fewer to see then, my dear. We shall also telephone to the five great stores, asking if they supplied Habershon with groceries. If we draw blank there in the main, we’ll try the side streets. London is a wonderful place for delicacies in dingy alleys.”

  They divided when they reached Oxford Street, and spent the next hour in an unsuccessful quest for Habershon’s coffee merchant. When they met again, Ned decided to telephone to the various stores. Ten minutes later, having drawn blank at all of them, he took Nancy to tea.

  After tea, they set out again to explore the many side-streets, and cross-streets within half a mile of Gale Street, Bloomsbury.

  They were to meet again at six at Oxford Circus.

  “A hopeless dawn, old thing!” said Ned, when Nancy joined him opposite Peter Robinson’s at five past six.

  “Eureka, to you, sir!” replied Nancy, who was all eagerness now. “You’re a pretty good guesser, Ned.”

  “We call it deduction,” he informed her. “But don’t tell me you’ve struck oil?”

  “I’ve discovered coffee anyway,” she retorted, “in a little street behind the Museum. They specialise in tea and coffee, and supplied Mr. Habershon——”

  “With coffee?”

  “Brazilian coffee. But he said it was for the servants. It seems that it’s cheaper than the other coffees.”

  Ned shrugged. “That’s a snag, but we’ll know better when we hear from Brews about the parcels from abroad. Mrs. Hoing no doubt bought the coffee at this place, and she could say what she liked. I am still sure she only invented the planter story to impress the coffee on your mind. She knew the information would go to me, and that I was temporarily connected with the press.”

  “But then she might have expected these importers to come forward and say they had not supplied Habershon’s coffee, but some Brazilian friend.”

  “They did not come forward, my dear, but if they had she was still sufficiently safeguarded. She said the coffee was for the servants. Why tell the man that? Shops don’t care who drinks the stuff so long as they can sell it.”

  Nancy agreed now. “But that suggests a long premeditated plan, doesn’t it?”

  “It does. If Mrs. Hoing was in this, she must have been doing a certain amount of spying and prying for some time. She must have had an idea that Habershon was losing heavily on the races. She must have had an idea that he was tinkering with his wards’ money.”

  “But how could she know that?”

  Ned pondered. “That’s where we shall need expert opinion. If Habershon brought those bonds to his house, and put them in his safe, we want to know what kind of safe it was. Lots of people keep valuables that a crook could get at with the aid of a stout hair-pin. I’ve seen one or two Silly safes myself.”

  “You think that she would have dared to tamper with his safe?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “My dear girl, if she was in this, she is a perfect terror and would stop at nothing. She’s a trusted servant, and was with him for years. She had the run of the house, and might even have a chance to get a squeeze of his safe key. There’s nothing in that. Brews will tell us what he thinks of her chances.”

  “But she would require an accomplice?”

  “Of course. But the business of getting the bodies down to the bank alongside my garden would be comparatively easy, granting the use of the punt in that drain leading to the river.”

  Nancy nodded. “I see. But if Mr. Hench made an alibi, by meeting the policeman at a quarter to ten, then—the murders must have taken place much earlier.”

  “Between eight and nine, in that case,” said Ned.

  Chapter XX

  “I’VE had two nice little letters this morning, Nancy,” said Ned, when he called for her next day. “One from a film company offering to buy my house, to stage a crime play there——”

  “But are you?” Nancy began.

  “No, I’m not. I think it’s a rotten idea. T’other letter was a note from Brews. He’s rather bucked about our idea, and says he can assure me that no parcels from Brazil were delivered to Mr. Habershon’s house in the last year, at least by the post. He is circularising the express and parcel companies now, and will let me know.”

  “I believe we’re on the right line,” she said, eagerly.

  “Hope so,” he said, and called her attention to the parcel under his arm. “Here we have part of the great work on the nidification of British birds, the letterpress. I read some of it last night, and was delighted to find that old Hench had packed a bit of his own in by accident. He was in a hurry to let me have it. There are eight pages on a different style altogether.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t quite know yet. But, having my little suspicions, I went carefully over the photographs again. Hench was watching a nesting hen-harrier from a hide, wasn’t he?”

  “So he said. He told us the people coming had frightened her away.”

  “Well, if he made a ‘hide’ to watch a bird on its nest, the ‘hide’ must have been made within sight of it. How is it that there are no photographs of a hawk on a nest in a marsh? There’s only the silly kestrel showing, and that is on the wing. The fact is that there was no hen-harrier, and no nest! Either Hench was telling the tale to explain why he was hanging about there, or else he mistook the kestrel for a harrier, and thought when it stooped down on some prey in the marsh that it was dropping on to its nest. He’s a bad man, or a bad ornithologist, as we said before. But why bring in a hen-harrier at all?”

  Nancy reflected. “Perhaps because it is known to nest in marshes, while other hawks don’t.”

  “Well, I am going to waste a fee on that expert taxidermist we saw the other day,” he replied. “Come along, and we’ll get into town and pay him a visit. I am going to ask him to read the last type-written chapter (which I think was written by Hench’s brother), and then the loose sheets which are Hench’s own contribution.”

  Half an hour later found them in the shop in Piccadilly. Ned explained what he wanted done, and said he would call back in an hour for an opinion. He was willing to pay an adequate fee if the matter was attended to at once.

  Then he and Nancy went the round of the shops, took a turn in the Green Park, and returning to Piccadilly, were soon in consultation with the taxidermist in his office at the back of the shop.

  “What do you think of it?” Ned asked, as the expert thoughtfully turned over the leaves of the manuscript on his desk.

  “I should be inclined to say, sir, that the original writer had been taken ill, and handed his work over to some inexperienced collaborator,” was the reply. “I read the last chapter. It was rather original, but quite sound, so I dipped in here and there further back. I should say the author was not a trained man, but had a natural love for the work, and keen observation.”

  “You mean the original man, not the one who began the extension?”

  “So there was another hand, as I thought?” the expert murmured. “Of course, it’s palpable. The loose pages are nonsense, where they are not copied verbatim from books on the subject. But I had better not say more, in case you had a hand in it, sir,” he added, with a smile.

  Ned laughed. “My withers are unwrung. You confirm the impression I formed. I suppose the book would have no chance if finished by the latter hand?”

  “No, sir, it would be laughable. It would be as funny, to a man who knew the subject, as a grouse stuffed and fitted with the head and neck of a snipe. But I can assure you that the first part, with the excellent photographs you showed me the other day, would sell. Our firm here would be quite willing to publish it. Of course the original writer would have to finish it himself.”

  Ned took out his note-case. “He’s dead, poor chap,” he said. “That, however, is all I want to know. What’s the damage, may I ask?”

  He paid the fee; the parcel was handed to him again, and he and Nancy walked out into Piccadilly.

  “Looks as if we should have to acquit Hench after all,” said Nancy. “He’s simply a muddler, not a murderer.”