The Sign on the Roof

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 236, 5 October 1935, Page 10 (Supplement)

The Sign on the Roof

By

PETER CHEYNEY

CHAPTER XIX.

Bitterly looked down at the man sitting opposite him. He was still smiling.

Charles was trembling. His hands, his knees, shook. Little beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He was unable to speak. “Just imagine, Charles,” Bitterly continued, “what a good time you’ll have at the coroner’s inquest on Tuesday when you stand up and tell them, in front of a crowd of people, how, with your nasty little friend, Bardella, and the partly innocent assistance of your mother, you plotted the unjust downfall of a woman whose shoes you are not fit to lick. It will be awfully nice for Bardella, won’t it, Charles?” Bitterly paused. “Now, about this murder accusation, Charles,” he continued. “My case is this. Lariat came to you last Monday to blackmail you. You gave him money to keep his mouth shut. That’s my first point. Now disprove that, Charles. You can, quite easily, Tell them that you rang up Bardella to get some money for you and tell them exactly what you gave that money to Lariat for. “My next point is that you suggested to Lariat, because he was blackmailing you, that you were prepared to act as the complaisant husband; that you suggested the following Friday night was the time because there would be no one else in the flat. You did this because you intended to murder him on the following Friday night, and you telephoned Bardon and said that you could go to his house so that you could see when Lariat arrived, so that you could go down to the flat, pretend to find him with your wife and kill him. Of course, Charles, you can disprove all that very easily, if you want to. All you have to do is to tell them why you had to be at Bardon’s flat at two o’clock, why you had to receive Lariat’s signal, and why you had to take your mother with you. I don’t mind. “My third point. You arranged for Lariat to write that letter so that, after you had killed him, it might be taken as a proof of the fact that he was not blackmailing you. All right. Produce that letter, Charles, and explain to them why the sign on the roof was mentioned!

“You see, Charles, everything points to my accusations being true. Every single fact and every bit of circumstantial evidence which I have collected points to you as being the deliberate murderer of Lariat. Everything says that you laid a cunning and well-thought-out plot to kill this man who was blackmailing you and making your life a misery ; this man, who "had arrived in this country saying that he knew where he could get money, meaning that he was going to get it from you.

“But you can smash my case down, Charles. You can prove your innocence just as easily as I can —apparently— prove your guilt. Let me tell you just what to say and just what to do, and let’s see how you like the idea. “Produce Bardella. Explain to the Court that you had been having an affair with her while she was • living as a guest in your house. Explain that you two wanted to get married, but you couldn’t do it because your wife was in the way. Then tell them how, when Bardella had inherited some money, you two found the situation unbearable. Bardella will prove all this for you if you ask her to. “Then tell them that when Lariat arrived you realised that you could use him in your plot. Bardella can prove that she, and not you, supplied the money for Lariat. “Put Bardon in the box and he can prove for you that when you went to his house on the Friday night you were not alone, as I say you were, and as a murderer would be, but accompanied by your mother. Then get your mother to give evidence for you by telling how you got into touch with her and told her that you had discovered that Diane was having an affair with Lariat; that you had found that Lariat intended to visit Diane that night and you wanted her to come along as a witness of your wife’s misconduct.

“Produce Lariat’s letter and tell them what that was written for. Produce Herbert and get him to tell them how you arranged that he should be out of the way at a party on Friday night. “All right. Do that, and sec what they think of you. They’ll know you for the dirty, sneaking rat that you are, a man who tried to betray his wife so that he might marry another woman just because she had some money. They’ll think a lot of you and a lot of Bardella, and a lot of your mother, won’t they? You’ll get the sack from your job and there won’t be a decent man who will ever speak to you again in your life.

“And I’ll see that the real story gets over, Charles. I’ll plaster your lousy face on the front page of every newspaper in this country. There’ll be no place for you to hide your head. “And Bardella will stand by you, won’t she? You bet she will. When this story breaks she’ll run like the little coward she is; like she ran when I went round to see her last time. Rats always leave a sinking ship, and, believe me, Charles, you’re sunk!” Charles had sunk down into his chair, a huddled heap. Bitterly walked across and, dragging him up out of the chair, looked into his face.

“Now, get out of here,” he said, “and keep on walking. Don’t think that you’re going to go home, Charles, because you’re not. You’re never going more. If you go round to Derham Crescent I won’t be responsible for what Herbert does to you. In any event, I think I’ll have the key.” He put his hand into the right-hand pocket of Charles’ overcoat. It encountered the key—and something else. Bitterly pulled it out. It was a small automatic pistol. He smiled. “So you brought a gun with yon, Charles, did you?” he said. “I suppose you were going to threaten me or something. You’re a brave fellow, aren’t you? Well, you can keep your gun. You haven’t got enough guts to kill anybody. “Now, remember what I’ve told you Now, remcmbpr this—later on I’m going round to the police. Formally, I’m going to accuse you on the information in my possession of the murder of yin-

cent Lariat. Of course, you could run off and hide, but they’d find you, Charles. They’ll get always do. Then it’s going to be amusing. Now get out.” Charles Vallery looked once at Bitterly—his face piteously malevolent. Then he half walked, half staggered to the door. Bitterly heard his slow steps going down the stairs. The street door slammed.

Bitterly went back to the fireplace and stood, his elbows resting on the mantelpiece, looking into the flames. He wondered just how far or how near Diane was at this moment, whether in this chaos of plot and counterplot there lay a gleam of hppe for their happiness some day.

He felt utterly exhausted. His brain desired only sleep. At the back of his mind was a half-formed idea to go round to Derhant Crescent to speak to Diane, to tell her the truth. But in a moment lie realised that the idea was foolish. She would know soon enough. He closed his eyes and immediately was asleep. Monday, November 13, 8.30 a.m.

Bitterly, awakened suddenly from his heavy sleep by the noise of a passing cart, opened his eyes and bestirred himself.. In that moment came to him the realisation of what had happened in that room a few hours before. As he stretched his stiff limbs he realised that this was to be a day of activities! The first thing to do was to go to the police; to create the situation which would force Charles to divulge his own low beastliness; to bring on Charles’ head the retribution ho so richly deserved.

The telephone jangled. Bitterly walked to the desk and took off the receiver. He had an idea that it might be Charles—a suppliant for mercy! It was not. It was Jacquot. “Hulloa, is that you Michael?” said tho crime • reporter. “Listen, what’s the matter with that neighbourhood of yours? Have you heard the latest?” “I’ve been "asleep,” said Bitterly. “What is it?”

“Nothing much,” said Jacquot. “A suicide, that’s all, and where do you think it was?

“Apparently, at 7.30 this morning, Mullens, the police officer, who found the body of that guy on the bricks, has found another one^—Charles Vallery. Used to live .in a house up the Crescent, shot himself through the head —obvious suicide. Mullens found the body in practically the same place as Lariat’s. You might look in at the police station, Mike, on your way down, and see if there’s anything else to it. I don’t expect there is. It looks like a plain, ordinary suicide.”

“All right, Bill,” said Bitterly. “See you later. So long.”

He walked to the window and looked out. So Charles, for once in his life, had done something sensible. He had taken the easiest wav out.

Bitterly walked to the telephone. In a few minutes he heard Diane’s voice on the wire.

“Listen, my dear,” he said. “I suppose you know about Charles. Well, don’t worry. There’s an awful lot in life, you know, and I want to talk to you about investigating its possibilities together. “I’m coming round now; we’ll talk it over. And listen .. . stop crying . . ' “I’ll try, Michael,” she answered. “And please come quickly.” He was about to leave when the telephone rang again. It was Jacquot once more. “Say, listen, Mike,” said the reporter. “I think that we were wrong about that guy, Lariat. I’ve been talking to some of the fellows round at Stephen’s doss house —the first place he stayed at. One of these men says that Lariat was talking about cat burglars, and said he wouldn’t mind having a go himself some time. Maybe, he’d done somebody down for that money he had on him.

“Anyway, the D.D.L in your district says that the inquest is all fixed. The police say accidental death and I’ve had the tip off that they don’t want any big theories from us. They’ve got enough to do. What do we do?”

Bitterly smiled to himself. He realised now that it would never be necessary for the police to hear any of his big theories. “Just let it go, Bill.” he said. “There’ll be other stories. Let ’em have it their own way. He was a cat burglar and it was accidental death.”

“0.K.,” said Jacquot. “I’ve got another case waiting for you, Mike—a real story this time; so that suits me.”

“Fine,” said Bitterly. “It suits me, too. I’ll be seeing you, Bill.” He hung up the receiver and went out. At the end of the Crescent, over the roofs, a weak winter sun was beginning to push out from behind the clouds. Bitterly smiled at the omen and hastened his steps. (THE END).