in many ways likable could, when frightened enough, caught without time to think, commit murder. And often men he despised for cruelty, indifference to others’ pain or humiliation, were nevertheless capable of coolness of thought which avoided the need for violence. Not that they abhorred it but because they understood the terrible consequences for themselves.
It was little use retracing his steps over Urban’s old cases until he knew of something else to look for. He had found no unexplainable irregularities the first time, and he knew where the extra money came from. Whether he had used his office to further the cause of the Inner Circle or not could wait for another time. Pitt thought not. He remembered how angry Urban had been over the Osmar case, and the influence he believed the Circle had brought to bear on that. And the very fact that he had betrayed them so far as to tell Pitt of their existence and his own membership was proof which way his loyalties lay.
In fact the more Pitt thought of him, the deeper was his liking for Urban personally, and his conviction that the Inner Circle had not succeeded in corrupting him to its uses. His disobedience had been the reason his name was on the list in the first place.
Then why was Carswell’s name there? He had succumbed. He had dismissed Osmar’s case. And what about Latimer? He needed to know more.
Where to find it?
He began with the music halls where Urban might have been seeking more remunerative employment, if he was telling the truth about the night Weems was killed. They were tawdry in the daylight: stages dusty, backdrops unreal; all the glamour lent by music, shadows and spotlights was gone, leaving a curious nakedness. It took him all day tramping from one hall to another, questioning reluctant management, which was very much on its dignity, protesting uprightness, moral probity and reputations not helped by having the like of Pitt hanging around asking questions. Yes of course they inquired into the backgrounds of everyone they hired. It was regrettably necessary to employ people to keep order, human nature being as it was, but they took on only men of the best character. It was grossly unfair that anyone should suggest otherwise.
Pitt brushed aside their arguments. He was not on this occasion interested in the general excellence of the establishment, only had they recently interviewed a man answering the description he gave.
Unfortunately three managers said they had. But in each case the description was so general it could have been Urban, or any of a thousand others. It only highlighted the impossibility of proving Urban innocent, unless the managers were faced with the actual man, and their memories were clear enough to make a positive identification.
Finally he went back to the hall in Stepney where he knew Urban had worked and asked to see the manager. A large man with thin hair scraped across the top of his head, and graying at the temples, came out to see him. He was well dressed, and it flashed through Pitt’s mind that he possibly owned the building as well as ran it.
“Yes, Inspector? My name is Caulfield, Hosea Caulfield. What can I do for you?” he asked agreeably. His voice was light and his diction a little sibilant. “Always help the police, if I can. What is it this time? Not that bouncer fellow again, is it? Getting hisself into trouble? Police were ’ere asking about him.”
“Yes it is,” Pitt answered, watching the man’s face, noticing the way he stood. There was something about him that puzzled, something not what he expected.
“Oh dear.” Caulfield rubbed his hands together as if he were cold, although it was midsummer and humid. “I feared as much, since the other officer was here. But I can’t help you.” He shook his head. “He never came back. Scarpered, you might say. Suspicious that, in itself.”
Pitt struggled to place what it was in the man that troubled him. He had spoken to enough music hall managers. They were all civil, but they were not fond of the police, and were better pleased to see him leave than arrive. But Caulfield was almost eager. He stood on the balls of his feet and under his fair brows his eyes were sharp on Pitt’s face. He was waiting for something, and it was not for Pitt to go. He wanted something first. Was it to receive information, or to give it?
To give it. Pitt could tell him nothing he could not have found out from Innes, and by general inquiry. And there was some emotion in him far stronger than fear, at least than fear of Pitt.
“What is it I can tell you, Inspector?” Caulfield urged, his face eager, his manner wavering between the dignified and deferential, as though he was uncertain of his role. “I know very little of the man, except he did his job well. Never gave me any trouble. Although he was an odd one.” He shook his head, then when Pitt was silent, pursued his thoughts regardless. “Struck up some strange friendships, or perhaps acquaintances would be a better term for it. I suppose a music hall is a good place for meeting people casually, unobserved, as it were, if you know what I mean?” He looked at Pitt questioningly.
Pitt found himself disliking him, and instinct fought with reason. He was being unfair. The man was probably anxious for his livelihood. There had already been one policeman inquiring about his employees. If he now suspected there had been some criminal activity on his premises he had every reason to be worried. An innocent man would behave this way.
Caulfield was watching Pitt’s face closely.
“Do you want to see the room he used?” he asked, licking his lips.
“Used?” Pitt said with a frown. “For what purpose?” Caulfield looked uncomfortable.
“Well-perhaps ‘room’ is a bit of a grand term for it.” He shrugged elaborately. “More of a cubbyhole, really. He- he asked to keep things now and then.” He looked sideways at Pitt rapidly then away again. “So of course I said ’E could. No harm in obliging.” He seemed to feel some need to explain himself as he led Pitt along a narrow, airless corridor and unlocked the door of a room very spartanly furnished with a wooden table, an unframed glass on the wall above it, two wooden chairs and a set of cupboards against the far wall, several tall enough to serve as wardrobes, and an uncurtained window looking into the blind wall of the next building.
“We use it for changing rooms for extra artistes,” Caulfield explained, waving his arm vaguely at the table.
Pitt said nothing.
Caulfield seemed to feel compelled to go on talking, his face growing pinker.
“Your man used that cupboard at the end there.” He pointed with a well-manicured hand.
Pitt looked, but did not move towards it.
Caulfield took a deep breath and licked his lips again. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to take a look inside?”
Pitt raised his eyebrows.
“Is there something in it?”
“I-well-I, er…” Caulfield was plainly caught in some embarrassment. Why? If he had looked that was not hard to understand. It was his cupboard and the man to whom he had lent its use had gone without warning. It would be usual to look and see if he had left anything behind. Such an act needed no explanation and certainly no apology.
Pitt regarded him unblinkingly and Caulfield colored.
“No,” he denied. “I don’t know if there’s anything there. I just thought-you bein’ police, and interested in the man, like, you’d want to see.”
“I do,” Pitt agreed, certain now that he would find something. It was unfair to be angry with the manager. It should have been Urban; it was Urban who had been greedy for the pictures and Urban who had gone moonlighting to get the money. No one had pushed him into ruining his career, certainly not this curiously uncomfortable man with his red face and constantly moving hands. “By the way, why was the room locked? There hardly seems anything worth stealing.”
Again Caulfield was thrown off balance. He shifted his feet.
“I-er-well-habit, I suppose. Sometimes people leave things…” He tailed off. “Do you want to see in the cupboard? Don’t mean to be uncivil, sir, but I do have duties…”
“Of course.” Pitt went over to the corner and opened the cupboard door. Inside was a large parcel, about two feet by three feet tall, but barely two inches thick, and wrapped in brown paper tied with string. He did not need to undo it to know what it was.
For once Caulfield kept silent. There was not even an in-drawn breath of surprise.
“Did he often leave pictures here?” Pitt asked.
Caulfield hesitated.
“Well?” Pitt asked.
“He often had parcels that size with ’im,” Caulfield said nervously. “He didn’t say what they were, an’ I didn’t ask. It did cross my mind as he was an artist, maybe, an’ that was why ’E needed the work extra.”
