Patricia Wentworth - The Key

‘Well?’ he said when he had finished. ‘What do you make of it?’

Miss Silver was silent. She appeared to be considering his answer. She said at last in a quiet, serious voice, ‘He went in to get some tea because he was tired and thirsty, but he came out at once without having any. Afterwards he spoke to one person of a ghost, and to another of an opening door. I have wondered whether he saw that door open before him when he went into the Ram – whether he recognised or half recognised someone connected with his past life in Germany. And I have wondered whether someone else may have been there too – someone connected, not with his past, but with his present life in Bourne. To both these persons recognition would have meant extreme of danger. They could not afford to remain in uncertainty on so important a point. I think it probable that one of them would have followed him in order to ascertain whether he went to the police. Discovering that he proceeded to the station to wait for the next train, they would conclude that the danger was not immediate – they would separate. But the matter could hardly be left there. Mr Harsch’s death may already have been decided upon. The chance that he might have recognised an enemy agent may, or may not, have precipitated the event. Sir George Rendal believes that a very determined attempt might have been made either to secure the formula of harschite for the enemy, or to deny the use of it to our own war effort.’

Frank whistled.

‘If Harsch opened a door in the Ram and recognised an enemy agent, why didn’t he go to the police then and there?’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘You have not read my notes attentively. Look at them again and you will see that he said, “But we will not talk of things like that – it is not good. You may come to fancy something that is not there, and to see your own thoughts. That is not good.” You see, he was not sure. I think he had received a severe shock. When he came to think over what he had seen the shock blurred it – he was not sure. He put his impression into words when he said to Miss Madoc, “I have seen a ghost”.’

Abbott surveyed her oddly.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘the Chief will go batty if you keep on pulling rabbits out of the hat like this. We had a perfectly good case against Madoc until you came along and chucked Bush into the middle of it, and just as we are beginning to pick up the bits and get a good buildup with Bush, you go and drag in our old friend the sinister enemy agent.’

‘There are such things as enemy agents,’ said Miss Silver soberly. ‘I should, of course, be extremely sorry to inconvenience the Chief Inspector in any way, but I would not do him the injustice of supposing that he has any other wish than to arrive at the truth. May I rely on you to see whether those photographs are recognised by anyone at the Ram?’

Frank burst out laughing.

‘You may always rely on me, as you very well know. But the Chief will go off the deep end if anything comes of it. Don’t say I didn’t tell you! And I would like to know whether this is really the fifth Act you were quoting about just now, or whether, to mix the metaphors, you’ve still got a wilderness of wild monkeys up your sleeve.’

Miss Silver smiled indulgently.

‘That remains to be seen,’ she said.

MISS SILVER SAT at one end of a long bare table, and Evan Madoc at the other. They were in a small room with linoleum on the floor. There was no furniture except the table, which was of varnished yellow deal, and a few uncompromising chairs with wooden seats. The air resembled the variety commonly found in post offices and railway waiting-rooms, being cold, damp, and highly charged with disinfectant. The door had an eighteen-inch glass panel at the top, through which the warder standing just outside could watch all that passed. Miss Silver was, however, assured that he was out of earshot.

She had been in the room for some few minutes before Mr Madoc was brought in. Her first impression was that whether he had or had not shot Mr Harsch he certainly looked as if he would like to murder her. He had, in fact, begun a somewhat vehement protest, when the warder tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Take it easy now – take it easy.’ After which he withdrew to his observation post.

Madoc, glaring after him, heard himself addressed by name in a prim, agreeable voice. It was kind, but it held a note of authority. It reminded him of his Aunt Bronwen Evans whose texts, tips and toffee had profoundly influenced his early years. He turned abruptly and beheld a little dowdy woman in a black jacket with a bunch of purple pansies in her hat.

She said, ‘Sit down, Mr Madoc. I want to talk to you.’

As she spoke, he met her eyes, found in them the one thing he respected, intelligence, and dropped into the chair which had been set for him with no more than a protesting frown. He said, ‘I don’t know who you are, and I have nothing to say.’

She smiled.

‘I have not asked you to say anything yet. My name is Maud Silver – Miss Maud Silver – and I am a private enquiry agent. Your friends, who do not believe that you shot Mr Harsch, have retained my services, and Chief Detective Inspector Lamb has kindly facilitated this interview.’

Evan Madoc pushed back an untidy black lock which was tickling his nose and said, ‘Why?’

His voice could not very well have been ruder.

Miss Silver looked at him reprovingly. Her manner indicated that discourtesy relegated one mentally and morally either to the nursery or the slum. A faint flush showed that the intimation had gone home. He said less rudely, but with a show of restrained temper, ‘I have nothing to say. And when you speak of my friends, I am at a loss to imagine-’

Miss Silver modified her look. It was still hortatory, but it promised forgiveness – like Aunt Bronwen when she had finished her sermon and the toffee came out of her pocket.

‘You have some very good friends, Mr Madoc – Miss Fell, with whom I am staying – Miss Meade, who was instrumental in calling me in-’

He hit the table with the flat of his hand.

‘You are not going to make me believe that Janice Meade is crying her eyes out over me! She told me once to my face that I was the most disagreeable man she had ever met, and that she wouldn’t have stayed with me a week if it hadn’t been for Michael Harsch!’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘Quite so. But she does not believe that you shot him. As a scientist, you should be able to understand that there is such a thing as a passion for abstract justice.’

He gave a bitter laugh.

‘And you ask me to believe that she would put her hand in her pocket for that?’

Miss Silver ignored this sordid theme. She gave him a penetrating look and said, ‘Miss Janice bases her belief in your innocence upon the fact that you cared a good deal for Mr Harsch.’

His eyes blazed for a moment. The muscles of his face twitched. He said, ‘What has that got to do with her – or with you?’

‘Nothing, Mr Madoc. I mentioned it as the basis of Miss Meade’s conviction that you are innocent. But to pursue the question of your friends. Your sister is naturally in great distress, and so of course is your wife.’

His chair was pushed back so sharply as to score the government linoleum. The warder, watching through his glass panel, put a hand to the door knob. But after tensing his muscles as if about to spring up Evan Madoc appeared to change his mind. The impulse failed. He dragged his chair in again and leaned forward with his elbows on the table, propped his chin in his hands, and put up a spread of restless fingers to cover his mouth. He said in a sort of mutter, ‘I have no wife.’