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Fifteen
I
Inspector Craddock had made an appointment with Harold Crackenthorpe
at his office, and he and Sergeant Wetherall arrived there punctually. The
office was on the fourth floor of a big block of City offices. Inside
everything showed prosperity and the acme of modern business taste.
A neat young woman took his name, spoke in a discreet murmur
through a telephone, and then, rising, showed them into Harold Cracken-
thorpe’s own private office.
Harold was sitting behind a large leather-topped desk and was looking
as impeccable and self- confident as ever. If, as the inspector’s private
knowledge led him to surmise, he was close upon Queer Street, no trace of
it showed.
He looked up with a frank welcoming interest.
“Good morning, Inspector Craddock. I hope this means that you have
some definite news for us at last?”
“Hardly that, I am afraid, Mr. Crackenthorpe. It’s just a few more ques-
tions I’d like to ask.”
“More questions? Surely by now we have answered everything imagin-
able.”
“I dare say it feels like that to you, Mr. Crackenthorpe, but it’s just a
question of our regular routine.”
“Well, what is it this time?” He spoke impatiently.
“I should be glad if you could tell me exactly what you were doing on
the afternoon and evening of 20th December last—say between the hours
of 3 p.m. and midnight.”
Harold Crackenthorpe went an angry shade of plum red.
“That seems to be a most extraordinary question to ask me. What does it
mean, I should like to know?”
Craddock smiled gently.
“It just means that I should like to know where you were between the
hours of 3 p.m. and midnight on Friday, 20th December.”
“Why?”
“It would help to narrow things down.”
“Narrow them down? You have extra information, then?”
“We hope that we’re getting a little closer, sir.”
“I’m not at all sure that I ought to answer your question. Not, that is,
without having my solicitor present.”
“That, of course, is entirely up to you,” said Craddock. “You are not
bound to answer any questions, and you have a perfect right to have a so-
licitor present before you do so.”
“You are not—let me be quite clear—er—warning me in any way?”
“Oh, no, sir.” Inspector Craddock looked properly shocked. “Nothing of
that kind. The questions I am asking you, I am asking several other people
as well. There’s nothing directly personal about this. It’s just a matter of
necessary eliminations.”
“Well, of course— I’m anxious to assist in any way I can. Let me see
now. Such a thing isn’t easy to answer off hand, but we’re very systematic
here. Miss Ellis, I expect, can help.”
He spoke briefly into one of the telephones on his desk and almost im-
mediately a streamlined young woman in a well-cut black suit entered
with a notebook.
“My secretary, Miss Ellis, Inspector Craddock. Now, Miss Ellis, the in-
spector would like to know what I was doing on the afternoon and even-
ing of—what was the date?”
“Friday, 20th December.”
“Friday, 20th December. I expect you will have some record.”
“Oh, yes.” Miss Ellis left the room, returned with an office memorandum
calendar and turned the pages.
“You were in the office on the morning of 20th December. You had a
conference with Mr. Goldie about the Cromartie merger, you lunched with
Lord Forthville at the Berkeley—”
“Ah, it was that day, yes.”
“You returned to the office about 3 o’clock and dictated half a dozen let-
ters. You then left to attend Sotheby’s sale rooms where you were interes-
ted in some rare manuscripts which were coming up for sale that day. You
did not return to the office again, but I have a note to remind you that you
were attending the Catering Club dinner that evening.” She looked up in-
terrogatively.
“Thank you, Miss Ellis.”
Miss Ellis glided from the room.
“That is all quite clear in my mind,” said Harold. “I went to Sotheby’s
that afternoon but the items I wanted there went for too high a price. I
had tea in a small place in Jermyn Street—Russell’s, I think, it was called. I
dropped into a News Theatre for about half an hour or so, then went
home—I live at 43 Cardigan Gardens. The Catering Club dinner took place
at seven-thirty at Caterer’s Hall, and after it I returned home to bed. I
think that should answer your questions.”
“That’s all very clear, Mr. Crackenthorpe. What time was it when you re-
turned home to dress?”
“I don’t think I can remember exactly. Soon after six, I should think.”
“And after your dinner?”
“It was, I think, half past eleven when I got home.”
“Did your manservant let you in? Or perhaps Lady Alice Crackenthorpe
—”
“My wife, Lady Alice, is abroad in the South of France and has been
since early December. I let myself in with my latch key.”
“So there is no one who can vouch for your returning home when you
say you did?”
Harold gave him a cold stare.
“I dare say the servants heard me come in. I have a man and wife. But,
really, Inspector—”
“Please, Mr. Crackenthorpe, I know these kind of questions are annoy-
ing, but I have nearly finished. Do you own a car?”
“Yes, a Humber Hawk.”
“You drive it yourself?”
“Yes. I don’t use it much except at weekends. Driving in London is quite
impossible nowadays.”
“I presume you use it when you go down to see your father and sister in
Brackhampton?”
“Not unless I am going to stay there for some length of time. If I just go
down for the night—as, for instance, to the inquest the other day—I al-
ways go by train. There is an excellent train service and it is far quicker
than going by car. The car my sister hires meets me at the station.”
“Where do you keep your car?”
“I rent a garage in the mews behind Cardigan Gardens. Any more ques-
tions?”
“I think that’s all for now,” said Inspector Craddock, smiling and rising.
“I’m very sorry for having to bother you.”
When they were outside, Sergeant Wetherall, a man who lived in a state
of dark suspicions of all and sundry, remarked meaningly:
“He didn’t like those questions—didn’t like them at all. Put out, he was.”
“If you have not committed a murder, it naturally annoys you if it seems
someone thinks that you have,” said Inspector Craddock mildly. “It would
particularly annoy an ultra respectable man like Harold Crackenthorpe.
There’s nothing in that. What we’ve got to find out now is if anyone actu-
ally saw Harold Crackenthorpe at the sale that afternoon, and the same
applies to the tea shop place. He could easily have travelled by the 4:33,
pushed the woman out of the train and caught a train back to London in
time to appear at the dinner. In the same way he could have driven his car
down that night, moved the body to the sarcophagus and driven back
again. Make inquiries in the mews.”
“Yes, sir. Do you think that’s what he did do?”
“How do I know?” asked Inspector Craddock. “He’s a tall dark man. He
could have been on that train and he’s got a connection with Rutherford
Hall. He’s a possible suspect in this case. Now for Brother Alfred.”
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