Dorothy Sayers - The Nine Tailors

“See here,” said Parker, “you may as well tell the truth now. Did that woman have anything to do with the theft of the emeralds?”

“How should I know? But to be frank, I don’t believe she did. I think she was just a plain fool. Deacon’s cats-paw. I’m sure the fellow put her on to find out about the stuff, but I don’t think she was wise to what she was doing. Honestly, I don’t think so, because I can’t see that man Deacon giving his game away. But hell! What do I know about it?”

“You don’t think she knows where the stuff is?”

Cranton thought for a moment. Then he laughed. “I’d pretty well take my oath she doesn’t.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. “If she knew and was straight, she’d have told the police, wouldn’t she? If she knew and was crooked, she’d have told me or my pals. No. You won’t get it out other.”

“H’m! You say you think she recognised you?”

“I got a sort of idea that she was beginning to find my face familiar. Mind you, it was only a kind of hunch I got. I might have been wrong. But I anticipated argument, and I have always considered argument ill-bred. So I went away. In the night. I was working for the blacksmith — an excellent fellow, but crude. I didn’t want any argument with him, neither. I just went quietly home to think things out, and then I got laid up with rheumatic fever, and it’s left my heart dickey, as you see.”

“Quite so. How did you get rheumatic fever?”

“Well, wouldn’t anybody get rheumatic fever, if he’d fallen into one of those cursed dykes? I never saw such a country, never. Country life never did suit me — particularly in the blasted middle of winter, with a thaw going on. I was damn nearly found dead in a ditch, which is no end for a gentleman.”

“You didn’t investigate the matter of Batty Thomas and Tailor Paul any further, then?” said Parker, placidly putting aside the eloquence which Mr. Cranton seemed ready to lavish on any side-issue. “I am referring to the bells. You did not, for instance, visit the belfry, to see if the emeralds were hidden up there?”

“No, of course I didn’t. Besides,” went on Mr. Cranton, much too hastily,” the confounded place was always locked.”

“You tried it, then?”

“Well, to be frank, I may just have laid my hand on the door, so to speak.”

“You never went up into the bell-chamber?”

“Not me.”

“Then how do you account for that?” demanded Parker, suddenly producing the mysterious cipher and thrusting it under the sick man’s eyes. Mr. Cranton turned extremely white.

“That?” he gasped. “That? — I never—” He fought for breath. “My heart — here, give me some of the stuff in that glass—”

“Give it him,” said Wimsey, “he’s really bad.”

Parker gave him the medicine with a grim face. After a time the blue pallor gave place to a healthier colour, and the breathing became more natural.

“That’s better,” said Cranton. “You startled me. What did you say? That? I never saw that before.”

“You’re lying,” said the Chief Inspector, curtly. “You have seen it. Jean Legros sent it to you, didn’t he?”

“Who’s he? Never heard of him.”

“That’s another lie. How much money did you send him to get him to England?”

“I tell you I never heard of him,” repeated Cranton, sullenly. “For God’s sake, can’t you leave me alone? I tell you I’m ill.”

He looked ill enough. Parker swore under his breath. “Look here, Nobby, why not come across with the truth? It’ll save us bothering you. I know you’re ill. Cough it up and get it over.”

“I know nothing about it. I’ve told you — I went down to Fenchurch and I came away again. I never saw that paper and I never heard of Jean what’s-his-name. Does that satisfy you?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Are you charging me with anything?”

Parker hesitated. “Not as yet,” he said.

“Then you’ve got to take my answer,” said Mr. Cranton, faintly, but as one who is sure of his position.

“I know that,” said Parker, “but, hang it, man I do you want to be charged? If you’d rather come down with us to the Yard—”

“What’s the idea? What have you got to charge me with? You can try me for stealing those bloody emeralds all over again. I haven’t got them. Never seen them—”

“No; but we might charge you with the murder of Jean Legros.”

“No — no — no!” cried Cranton. “It’s a lie! I never killed him. I never killed anybody. I never—”

“He’s fainted,” said Wimsey.

“He’s dead,” said Superintendent Blundell, speaking for the first time.

“I hope to goodness not,” said Parker. “No — it’s all right, but he looks pretty queer. Better get hold of that girl. Here, Polly!”

A woman came in. She gave one resentful glance at the three men and hurried across to Cranton.

“If you’ve killed him,” she muttered, “it’s murder. Coming and threatening one that’s as sick as him. You get out, you great bullies. He’s done nobody any harm.”

“I’ll send the doctor along,” said Parker. “And I’ll be coming to see him again. And when I do come, see that I find him here all right. Understand? We shall want him elsewhere, you know, as soon as he’s fit to be moved. He hasn’t reported himself since last September.”

The girl shrugged a disdainful shoulder, and they left her bending over the sick man.

“Well, Superintendent,” said Parker. “I’m afraid that’s the best we can do for you at the moment. The man’s not shamming — he’s really ill. But he’s holding something out on us. All the same, I don’t think it’s murder, somehow. That wouldn’t be like Cranton. He knew that paper all right.”

“Yes,” said Wimsey. “Produced quite a reaction, didn’t it? He’s frightened about something, Charles. What is it?”

“He’s frightened about the murder.”

“Well,” said Blundell, “it looks to me as though he did it. He admits he was there, and that he ran away on the night the body was buried. If he didn’t do it, who did? He could have got the key of the crypt from the sexton all right, we know that.”

“So he could,” said Wimsey, “but he was a stranger to the place. How did he know where the sexton kept his tools? Or where to find the bell-rope? He might have noticed the well, of course, in the day-time, but it’s funny that he should have had the whole scheme so pat. And where does Legros come into it? If Deacon told Cranton in the dock where to find the emeralds, where was the sense of bringing Legros to England? He didn’t want him. And, if he did for some reason need Legros, and killed him to get the emeralds, where are the emeralds? If he sold them, you ought to have found it out by now. If he’s still got them, you’d better have a hunt for them.”

“We’ll search the house,” said Parker, dubiously, “but I don’t somehow think he’s got them. He wasn’t alarmed about the emeralds. It’s a puzzle. But we’ll turn the place upside-down, and if they’re there, we’ll get them.”

“And if you do,” said Blundell, “then you can arrest that chap for the murder. Whoever’s got the emeralds did the murder. I’m sure of that.”

“Where thy treasure is, there shall thy heart be also,” said Wimsey. “The heart of this crime is down at St. Paul. That’s my prophecy, Charles. Will you have a bet on it?”

“No, I won’t,” said the Chief Inspector. “You’re right too often, Peter, and I’ve no money to waste.”

* * *

Wimsey went back to Fenchurch St. Paul and shut himself up with the cipher. He had untwisted cryptograms before, and he felt certain that this would prove to be a simple one. Whether the inventor was Cranton or Jean Legros or Will Thoday or any other person connected with the affair of the Wilbraham emeralds, he was hardly likely to be an expert in the art of secret writing. Yet the thing had the signs of a cunning hand about it. He had never seen a secret message that looked so innocent. Sherlock Holmes’ Little Dancing Men were, by comparison, obviously secretive.