Have His Carcase

‘Yes: Constable Ormond is, down there now oh! here he is.’

Constable Ormond had inquired minutely. It was a classical concert, starting at 10.30. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, by Mozart; two Lieder ohne Worter by Mendelssohn; Bach’s Air for G String; Suite by Handel; Interval; Beethoven’s Eroica. All present and correct, Bach and Beethoven as per statement and approximately at the correct times. No printed programme that anyone could have taken away or memories. Further, the Eroica had been substituted at the last minute for the Pastoral, owing to some difficulty about mislaid band-parts. Each piece had been announced from the platform by the conductor. If anyone still nursed a suspicion that Mr Henry Weldon had not been present at that particular concert, it could only be out of surprise that he should have troubled to remember the items he had heard so, exactly. Positive confirmation of his story there was none, though P.C.Ormond had carefully questioned the attendants. Persons in tinted; spectacles were, alas! as common in the Winter Gardens as blackbeetles in a basement.

Some, additional confirmation of Weldon’s story was brought in a few minutes later by another constable. He had interviewed Mrs Lefranc and discovered that a gentleman in dark glasses really had called on Paul Alexis on the Wednesday and tried to get information about Leila Garland. Mrs Lefranc, scenting ‘trouble’, had packed him off with a flea in his ear to the restaurant where Alexis frequently lunched: Here the proprietor remembered him; yes, there had, he believed, been some talk about the Winter Gardens with a gentleman out of the orchestra who had happened to drop in — no, not Mr da Soto, but a much humbler gentleman, who played at the fourth desk of second violins. Finally, as sequel to a series of inquiries put round the principal Wilvercombe garages, a mechanic was found who remembered a gent calling on Wednesday evening with a Morgan and complaining of trouble in starting and feeble ignition. The mechanic. had been able to find no fault beyond a certain amount of wear in the platinum; points, which might have caused bad starting when the engine, was cold.

All these things were of little importance as regarded the actual crime, if there was one; they served, however, to support the general accuracy of Weldon’s statement.

One of the minor irritations of detective; work is, the delay which usually occurs in the putting-through of inquiries. Trunk-calls are held up, people urgently required for interviews are absent from home; letters take time to travel. It was therefore gratifying and surprising to find the identification of the owner of 01 0101 going along like oiled clockwork. Within an hour, a telegram arrived from the — Shire County Council, stating that 01 0101 had been last — transferred to a Mrs Morecambe, living at 17 Popcorn Street, Kensington.; Within ten minutes, the Wilvercombe Telephone Exchange had put through a trunk-call. Within fifteen minutes the bell rang and Superintendent Glaisher was learning from Mrs Morecambe’s maid that her mistress was staying at Heathbury Vicarage. A call to the vicarage received immediate attention. Yes, Mrs Morecambe was staying there; yes, she was at home; yes, they would fetch her; yes, this was Mrs Morecambe speaking; yes, she distinctly remembered driving a gentleman in dark glasses from Darley to Wilvercombe and back last Thursday; yes, she thought she could remember the times; she must have picked him up about ten o’clock, judging by the time she had started out from Heathbury, and she knew she had dropped him in Darley again at one o’clock, because she had consulted her watch to see if she would be in time for her luncheon and tennis-party at Colonel Cranton’s, the other side of Heathbury. No, she had never seen the gentleman before and did not know his name, but she thought she could identify him if required. No trouble at all, thanks — she was only glad to know that the police had nothing against her (silvery laughter); when the maid said the Superintendent was on the phone she had been afraid she might have been trespassing on the white lines, or parking in the wrong place or something. She would be staying at the vicarage till next Monday and would he happy to assist the police in any way. She did hope she hadn’t been helping a gangster to escape or anything of that sort.

The Superintendent-scratched his head. ‘It’s uncanny,’ he said. ‘Here we are and we know all about it — not so much as a wrong number! But anyhow, if the lady’s a friend of the Rev. Trevor’s, she’s, O.K. He’s lived here for fifteen years and is the nicest gentleman you could wish to meet — quite one of the old school. We’ll just find out how well he knows this Mrs Morecambe, but I expect it’s ‘ all right. As to this identification, I don’t know that it’s worth while.’