The two men looked at each other in silence for a time. Then the bank-manager shook his head again.
“You wouldn’t think that a man who has a five-pound note of his own to change would be likely, to murder another man for what he could get,” he went on. “But Kitely had a nice bit of money to carry away, and he wore a very valuable gold watch and chain, which he was rather fond of showing in the town, and—eh?”
“It’s a suspicious business,” said Mallalieu. “You say Harborough saw Kitely take his money?”
“Couldn’t fail,” replied the bank-manager. “He was standing by him. The old man put it—notes and gold—in a pocket that he had inside his waistcoat.”
Mallalieu lingered, as if in thought, rubbing his chin and staring at the carpet. “Well, that’s a sort of additional clue,” he remarked at last. “It looks very black against Harborough.”
“We’ve the numbers of the notes that I handed to Kitely,” observed the bank-manager. “They may be useful if there’s any attempt to change any note, you know.”
Mallalieu shook his head.
“Aye, just so,” he answered. “But I should say there won’t be—just yet. It’s a queer business, isn’t it—but, as I say, there’s evidence against this fellow, and we must try to get him.”
He went out then and crossed the street to the doctor’s house—while he was about it, he wanted to know all he could. And with the doctor he stopped much longer than he had stopped at the bank, and when he left him he was puzzled. For the doctor said to him what he had said to Cotherstone and to Bent and to the rest of the group in the wood—that whoever had strangled Kitely had had experience in that sort of grim work before—or else he was a sailorman who had expert knowledge of tying knots. Now Mallalieu was by that time more certain than ever that Cotherstone was the murderer, and he felt sure that Cotherstone had no experience of that sort of thing.
“Done with a single twist and a turn!” he muttered to himself as he walked back to the police-station. “Aye—aye!—that seems to show knowledge. But it’s not my business to follow that up just now—I know what my business is—nobody better.”
The superintendent and the sergeant were giving orders to two sleepy-eyed policemen when Mallalieu rejoined them. He waited until the policemen had gone away to patrol the Shawl and then took the superintendent aside.
“I’ve heard a bit more incriminatory news against Harborough,” he said. “He was in the bank this morning—or yesterday morning, as it now is—when Kitely drew his money. There may be naught in that—and there may be a lot. Anyway, he knew the old man had a goodish bit on him.”
The superintendent nodded, but his manner was doubtful.
“Well, of course, that’s evidence—considering things,” he said, “but you know as well as I do, Mr. Mayor, that Harborough’s not a man that’s ever been in want of money. It’s the belief of a good many folks in the town that he has money of his own: he’s always been a bit of a mystery ever since I can remember. He could afford to give that daughter of his a good education—good as a young lady gets—and he spends plenty, and I never heard of him owing aught. Of course, he’s a queer lot—we know he’s a poacher and all that, but he’s so skilful about it that we’ve never been able to catch him. I can’t think he’s the guilty party—and yet—”
“You can’t get away from the facts,” said Mallalieu. “He’ll have to be sought for. If he’s made himself scarce—if he doesn’t come home—”
“Ah, that ’ud certainly be against him!” agreed the superintendent. “Well, I’m doing all I can. We’ve got our own men out, and there’s three officers coming over from Norcaster by motor—they’re on the way now.”
“Send for me if aught turns up,” said Mallalieu.
He walked slowly home, his brain still busy with possibilities and eventualities. And within five minutes of his waking at his usual hour of six it was again busy—and curious. For he and Cotherstone, both keen business men who believed in constant supervision of their workmen, were accustomed to meet at the yard at half-past six every morning, summer or winter, and he was wondering what his partner would say and do—and look like.
Cotherstone was in the yard when Mallalieu reached it. He was giving some orders to a carter, and he finished what he was doing before coming up to Mallalieu. In the half light of the morning he looked pretty much as usual—but Mallalieu noticed a certain worn look under his eyes and suppressed nervousness in his voice. He himself remained silent and observant, and he let Cotherstone speak first.
“Well?” said Cotherstone, coming close to him as they stood in a vacant space outside the office. “Well?”
“Well?” responded Mallalieu.
Cotherstone began to fidget with some account books and papers that he had brought from his house. He eyed his partner with furtive glances; Mallalieu eyed him with steady and watchful ones.
“I suppose you’ve heard all about it?” said Cotherstone, after an awkward silence.
“Aye!” replied Mallalieu, drily. “Aye, I’ve heard.”
Cotherstone looked round. There was no one near him, but he dropped his voice to a whisper.
“So long as nobody but him knew,” he muttered, giving Mallalieu another side glance, “so long as he hadn’t said aught to anybody—and I don’t think he had—we’re—safe.”
Mallalieu was still staring quietly at Cotherstone. And Cotherstone began to grow restless under that steady, questioning look.
“Oh?” observed Mallalieu, at last. “Aye? You think so? Ah!”
“Good God—don’t you!” exclaimed Cotherstone, roused to a sudden anger. “Why—”
But just then a policeman came out of the High Street into the yard, caught sight of the two partners, and came over to them, touching his helmet.
“Can your Worship step across the way?” he asked. “They’ve brought Harborough down, and the Super wants a word with you.”
VIII
Retained
