Dirt Cheap

 

A MONTAGUE EGG STORY

 

MR MONTAGUE EGG WAS startled out of his beauty sleep by the ugly noise

next door.

‘Wah! wah! wah!’ in a series of crescendo roars. Then followed a long,

choking gurgle.

The Griffin at Cuttlesbury was an old-fashioned and ill-kept hotel.

Neither Mr Egg nor his fellow-commercials would have dreamed of

patronising it in ordinary circumstances. But the Green Man had been put

temporarily out of commission by a disastrous fire; and that was how Mr

Egg, after an ill-cooked and indigestible dinner, came to be lying in a lumpy

bed in this fusty, dusty bedroom, without electric light or even a bedside

candle and matches, so slovenly was the service.

As full consciousness slowly returned to him, Mr Egg took stock of the

situation. There were, he knew, only three bedrooms in this isolated

corridor; his own, in the middle; on the left, No. 8, containing old Waters,

of Messrs Brotherhood, Ltd, the soft-drinks-and-confectionery firm; on the

right, No. 10, allotted to that stout man who travelled in jewellery, whose

name was Pringle, and who had stuffed himself up that evening with

dubious mackerel and underdone pork, to the admiration of all beholders.

Close behind the head of Monty’s bed, the rich and rhythmical snoring of

old Waters shook the thin partition like the vibration of a passing lorry. It

must be Pringle who was making the uproar; mackerel and pork were the

most probable explanation.

The bellowing had ceased; only a few faint grunts were now to be

heard. He didn’t know Pringle, and hadn’t liked the look of him very much.

But perhaps the man was really ill. It would be only decent to go and find

out.

He swung his legs reluctantly over the side of the bed and thrust his feet

into his slippers. Without troubling to search for matches and light the

gloomy gas-jet with the broken mantle at the far end of the room, he felt his

way to the door, unlocked it and stepped out into the corridor. At the far

end, another gas-jet burned dimly on the by-pass, throwing a misleading

jumble of light and shadow on the two creaking steps that separated the

corridor from the main landing.

In No. 8, old Waters snored on undisturbed. Monty turned to his right

and knocked at the door of No. 10.

‘Who’s there?’ demanded a stifled voice.

‘Me – Egg,’ said Monty. He turned the handle as he spoke, but the door

was locked. ‘Are you all right? I heard you call out.’

‘Sorry.’ The bed creaked as though the speaker were levering himself up

to a sitting position. ‘Nightmare. Sorry I disturbed you.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Mr Egg, pleased to have his diagnosis

confirmed. ‘Sure there’s nothing I can do?’

‘No, thanks, quite all right.’ Mr Pringle seemed to have buried his head

in the blankets again.

‘Good-night, then,’ said Monty.

‘G’night.’

Mr Egg slipped back to his own room. The snores in No. 8 were

increasing in vehemence, and, as he shut and relocked his door, ended

suddenly in a ferocious snort. All was quiet. Monty wondered what time it

was, but while he was feeling in his coat-pocket for his matches, a clock began to strike with a sweet, vibrating, mellow tone that seemed to come

from a considerable distance. He counted twelve strokes. It was earlier than

he thought. Being tired, he had gone up to bed at half-past ten and had

heard Waters pass his door only a few minutes after. There was now no

sound of movement in the hotel. In the main street below, a car passed. The

snoring in No. 8 began again.

Mr Egg returned to his uncomfortable mattress and once more disposed

his plump body to slumber. He hated being roused from his first, deep,

delicious unconsciousness. Confound Waters! Drowsily counting the

snores, be began to doze.

Click! a door in the passage had opened. Then came stealthy footsteps,

interrupted by a creak and a stumble. Somebody had tripped up the two

badly-lighted steps on the way to the landing. Listening to the steady

rumbling of Waters, Monty decided, with a certain grim satisfaction, that

the mackerel and pork had finally proved too much for Mr Pringle.

Then, quite suddenly, he fell fast asleep.

At six o’clock, he was awakened again by a clatter in the corridor and a

banging on the door of No. 8. Waters, confound him, catching an early

train. The chambermaid was giggling next door. One of the boys was old

Waters, but Mr Egg wished he would keep his gallantries for a more

appropriate time of day. Stump, stump past the door; creak, trip, curse –

Waters falling up the two steps on his way to the bathroom. Blessed interval

of peace. Trip, creak, curse, stump, stump, crash – Waters returning from

his bath and banging his bedroom door. Bang, rustle, thump – Waters

dressing and strapping his bags. Stump, stump, creak, trip, curse – thank

heaven! that was the last of Waters.

Monty stretched out his hand for his watch, whose face was now dimly

visible in the morning light that filtered through the dingy curtains. Two minutes to seven – a good half-hour before he need get up. Presently, the

four quarters and the hour from the town clock, and, closely following

them, the sweet, vibrating musical tones of a clock in the distance. Then

silence, punctuated only by the far-away comings and goings of the hotel

staff. Mr Egg dropped off again.

At twenty minutes past seven the corridor rang with piercing and

reiterated screams.

Monty leapt up. This time, something really was the matter. He ran to

the door, dragging on his dressing-gown as he went. Three or four people

came hurrying down the steps from the landing.

The chambermaid stood at the door of No. 10. She had dropped the can

she was carrying, and a stream of water was soaking over the carpet. Her

face was green, her soiled cap was thrust awry, and she was shrieking with

the shrill, automatic regularity of violent hysteria.

Inside, on the bed, sprawled the gross body of Mr Pringle. His face was

swollen, and there were ugly purple marks on his thick neck. Blood had run

from his nose and mouth and stained the pillows. His clothes were huddled

on a chair, his suit-case stood open on the floor, his false teeth grinned from

the tooth-glass on the wash-stand, but his traveller’s bag with its samples of

jewellery was nowhere to be seen. Mr Pringle lay robbed and murdered.

With a dreadful feeling of reproach, Mr Egg realised that he must

actually have heard the murder committed – actually spoken with the

murderer. He explained all this to Inspector Monk.

‘I couldn’t say whether the voice sounded like his. I had scarcely

spoken to him. He didn’t sit at my table at dinner, and we only exchanged a

few words later on in the bar-parlour. The voice was muffled – it might

easily have been the voice of a man who has just woken up and was speaking from half under the blankets and without his false teeth. I don’t

suppose I should recognise the voice again.’

‘That’s very natural, Mr Egg; don’t distress yourself. Now, about this

Mr Waters, who left by the early train. You say you heard him snoring all

the time?’

‘Yes – both before and after. I know him; he’s a highly respectable

man.’

‘Quite. Well, we shall have to get in touch with him some time, I

suppose, but obviously, if he slept right through it he won’t be able to tell us

anything. I think we must take it that the person you spoke to was the

murderer. You say you can fix the time?’

‘Yes.’ Monty described again how he had heard the clock strike twelve.

‘And by the way,’ he added, ‘I can’t, of course, produce any alibi for

myself, but my employers, Messrs Plummet & Rose, Wines & Spirits,

Piccadilly, would speak for me as to character.’

‘We’ll look into that, Mr Egg. Don’t you worry,’ said Inspector Monk,

imperturbably. ‘Let me see, haven’t I heard your name before? Ever meet a

friend of mine called Ramage?’

‘Inspector Ramage of Ditchley? Why, yes. There was a little problem

about a garage clock.’

‘That’s right. He said you were a smart chap.’

‘Much obliged to him, I’m sure.’

‘So for the moment we’ll accept your evidence and see where that gets

us. Now, this clock here. Was it accurate, do you suppose?’

‘Well, I heard it strike again this morning, and it was right then by my

watch. At least,’ said Monty, as some obscure doubt fluttered uneasily into

the back of his mind and fluttered elusively away again, ‘I think it was the same clock. It had the same note – deep and quick and what you might call

humming. Rather a pretty strike.’

‘H’m,’ said the Inspector. ‘We’d better check that up. May have been

wrong last night and right again this morning. We’ll take a turn round the

house and see if we can identify it. Ruggles, make Mr Bates understand that

nobody must leave the place, and tell him we’ll be as quick as we can. Now,

Mr Egg.’

There were only six striking clocks in the Griffin. The grand-father on

the stairs was promptly eliminated; his voice was thin and high and

quavering, like the voice of the very old gentleman that he was. The garage-

clock, too, had quite the wrong kind of strike, while the clock in the coffee-

room and the ugly bronze monster in the drawing-room were both inaudible

from Monty’s room, and the clock in the bar was a cuckoo clock. But when

they came to the kitchen, just beneath Monty’s bedroom, Monty said at

once:

‘That looks like it.’

It was an old American eight-day wall-clock, in a rosewood veneer

case, with a painted dial and the picture of a beehive on its glass door.

‘I know the kind,’ said Monty, ‘it strikes on a coiled spring and gives

just the sort of rich, humming tone, like a church bell, but much quicker.’

The Inspector opened the clock and peered inside.

‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘Now let’s check him up. Twenty-minutes to nine.

Correct. Now, you go upstairs and I’ll push the hands on to nine o’clock,

and you tell us if that’s what you heard.’

In his bedroom, with the door shut, Monty listened again to that deep,

quick, vibratory note. He hurried downstairs.

‘It’s exactly like it, as far as I can tell.’

‘Good. Then, if the clock hasn’t been tampered with, we’ve got our time

settled.’

It proved unexpectedly easy to show that the clock had been right at

midnight. The cook had set it by the Town Hall clock, just before going up

to bed at eleven. She had then locked the kitchen door and taken away the

key, as she always did, ‘Otherwise that there Boots would be down at all

hours, sneaking food from the larder.’ And the Boots – an unwholesome-

looking lad of sixteen – had reluctantly confirmed this statement by

admitting that he had tried the kitchen door half an hour later and found it

securely fastened. There was no other access to the kitchen, except by the

back door and windows – all bolted on the inside.

‘Very well,’ said the Inspector. ‘Now we can look into all these people’s

alibis. And in the meantime, Ruggles, you’d better have a good hunt for

Pringle’s sample-case. We know he took it to bed with him,’ he added,

turning to Monty, whom he seemed disposed to confide in, ‘because the

barman saw him. And it can’t have been taken out of the hotel before the

body was discovered, because all the outside doors were locked and the

keys removed – we’ve verified that – and nobody went out after they were

opened except your friend Waters, and on your showing, he’s not the

murderer. Unless, of course, he’s an accomplice.’

‘Not Waters,’ said Mr Egg stoutly. ‘Honest as the day, is old Waters.

Won’t even wangle his expense-sheet. “Account with rigid honesty for £

and s and even d.” Waters’ pet passage from The Salesman’s Handbook.’

‘Very good,’ replied the Inspector, ‘but where’s that case?’

The management and staff of the Griffin being all examined and

satisfactorily accounted for, Inspector Monk turned his attention to the

guests. After the memorable dinner of mackerel and pork, Mr Egg, Mr

Waters and two other commercial gentlemen named Loveday and Turnbull had played bridge till half-past ten, when Mr Egg and Mr Waters had

retired. The other two had then gone down to the bar until it closed at

eleven, after which they had gone up to Mr Loveday’s room on the other

side of the house. Here they had chatted till half-past twelve and had then

separated. At one o’clock, Mr Loveday had gone in to borrow a dose of

fruit salts from Mr Tumbull, who travelled in that commodity. They thus

provided alibis for one another, and there seemed to be no reason to

disbelieve them.

Then came an elderly lady called Mrs Flack, who was obviously

incapable of strangling a large man single-handed. Her room was on the

main landing, and she slept undisturbed till about half-past twelve, when

somebody came past her door and turned on the water in the bathroom. At a

little before one, this inconsiderate person had returned to his room.

Otherwise she had heard nothing.

The only other guest, besides Waters and Pringle himself, was a person

who had arrived with Mr Pringle in the latter’s car and said that he was a

‘photographic agent’, answering to the name of Alistair Cobb. Inspector

Monk did not like the look of him, but he was important, having spent a

good part of the evening with the murdered man.

‘Get it out of your heads,’ said Mr Cobb, sleeking his hair, ‘that I know

anything much about Pringle. Never set eyes on him till seven o’clock last

night. I’d missed the bus (literally, I mean) from Tadworthy – you know it,

a little one-horse place about four miles out – and there wasn’t another till

nine. So I was starting out to leg it with my suit-case when Pringle came by

and offered me a lift. Said he often gave people lifts. Companionable chap.

Didn’t like driving alone.’

Mr Egg (who was present at the interview, a privilege no doubt

attributable to Inspector Ramage’s favourable opinion of him) shuddered at this rash behaviour on the part of a traveller in jewellery, and was

disagreeably reminded of the late Mr Rouse, of burning-car celebrity.

‘He was a decent old geezer,’ went on Mr Cobb, reminiscently. ‘Quite a

gay old lad. He brought me along here –’

‘You had business in Cuttlesbury?’

‘Sure thing. Photographs, you know. Enlarge Dad and Mother’s

wedding-group free. With gilt frame, twenty-five shillings. Dirt cheap. You

know the game?’

‘I do,’ replied the Inspector, with an emphasis that made it clear that he

thought the game a very doubtful one.

‘Just so,’ said Mr Cobb with a wink. ‘Well, we had dinner – and a

dashed bad dinner too. Then we had a bit of a yarn in the bar-parlour. Bates

and the barman saw us there. Then Bates went off to play billiards with

some young fellow who dropped in, and we sat on till just about eleven.

Then Pringle barged off – said he wasn’t feeling the thing, and I’m not

surprised. That mackerel –’

‘Never mind the mackerel now,’ said Monk. ‘The barman says you and

Pringle had a final drink at five to eleven, and then Pringle went off to bed,

taking his bag with him. Did you go straight to the billiard-room at that

point?’

‘Yes, right away. We played –’

‘Just a minute. Bates says you made a phone call first.’

‘So I did. At least, I went up first and found Bates and the other chap

just finishing their game. So I said I’d make my call and then take Bates on.

You can check the call for the time. I made it to the Bull at Tadworthy. I’d

left a pair of gloves in the bar. A man answered me and said he’d found

them and would send them on.’

The Inspector made a note.

‘And how long did you play billiards?’

‘Till around about a quarter-past twelve. Then Bates said he’d had

enough, as he had to get up early, so we drank the drinks I’d won off him

and I pushed up to bed.’

The Inspector nodded. This confirmed the landlord’s evidence.

‘My room’s on the main landing,’ went on Mr Cobb. ‘No, not the side

near the corridor where the disturbance was – the other side. But I went

across and had a bath; the bathroom’s near the steps that go down to the

corridor. It would be about ten to one when I got back. All quiet then on the

Western Front.’

‘What did you and Pringle talk about downstairs?’

‘Oh, this and that,’ replied Mr Cobb easily. ‘We got swapping yarns and

so on. Pringle had a hot one or two, and yours truly kept his end up. Have a

fag, Inspector?’

‘No, thanks. Did Pringle happen to mention – Yes, Ruggles, what is it?

Excuse me one moment, gentlemen.’

He stepped to the door for a word with the sergeant, returning in a

minute or two with a card in his hand.

‘I suppose your photographic supplies don’t include this kind of thing,

Mr Cobb?’

Mr Cobb blew out a long cloud of smoke with a whistling noise.

‘No,’ he said, ‘no-ho! Where did you get this pretty thing from?’

‘Ever seen it before?’

Mr Cobb hesitated. ‘Well, since you ask me, yes. The late lamented

Pringle showed it me last night. Wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t

asked me. Speak no ill of the dead and so on. But he was a bit up and

coming, was Pringle.’

‘Sure it was the same one?’

‘Looks like it. Same pretty lady – same pretty pose, anyhow.’

‘Where did he carry it?’ asked the Inspector, taking the photograph back

and attaching it to his notes with a paper-clip – but not before Mr Egg had

snatched a glimpse of it and been suitably shocked.

‘In his breast-pocket,’ replied Mr Cobb, after a moment’s thought.

‘I see. Pringle told you what his job was, I suppose. Did he happen to

say anything about taking precautions against thieves, or anything of that

sort?’

‘He did mention that he had valuable stuff in his bag and always locked

his bedroom door,’ returned Mr Cobb, with an air of great frankness. ‘Not

that I asked him. No affair of mine what he did.’

‘Quite so. Well, Mr Cobb, I don’t think I need trouble you further at

present, but I’d be obliged if you’d stay in the hotel till I’ve seen you again.

Sorry to inconvenience you.’

‘Not at all,’ said the obliging Mr Cobb. ‘It’s all the same to me.’ He

sauntered out, smiling pleasantly.

‘Pah!’ said Inspector Monk. ‘There’s a nasty piece of work for you.

Cheap dirt. And a liar, too. You saw that photo? (And how anybody can

print such filth beats me.) Well, that hadn’t been carried round in a breast-

pocket. Edges quite sharp. Fresh out of its envelope, from the look of it.

Don’t mind betting you’d find the rest of the series in that fellow’s suit-

case. But naturally he won’t admit it – it’s a punishable offence to sell

them.’

‘Where was this one found?’

‘Under Pringle’s bed. If Cobb hadn’t got an alibi – and I’m pretty sure

Bates is telling the truth, and as a matter of fact, the cook’s window looks

on to the billiards-room window, and she saw them playing there until

12.15. Unless they’re all in it together, which isn’t likely. And still no sign of Pringle’s bag. But we can’t get over the evidence of that clock. You’re

sure it struck twelve?’

‘Absolutely. I couldn’t mistake one or two strokes for twelve.’

‘No, of course not.’ The Inspector drummed on the table and stared into

vacancy. Monty took this for a dismissal. He went back into his own

bedroom. The bed had not yet been made nor the slops emptied, the

slatternly routine of the Griffin having been reduced to complete chaos by

the catastrophe. He threw himself into a broken-springed arm-chair, lit a

cigarette and meditated.

He had been brooding for ten minutes or so when he heard the town

clock chime the quarters and strike eleven. Mechanically he waited,

expecting to hear the answering melodious strike of the kitchen clock, but

nothing came. Then he remembered that Monk had set the hands twenty

minutes forward that morning, so that it must have struck some time since.

And then he bounded to his feet with a loud exclamation.

‘Heavens! What a fool I am! This morning at seven the town clock

struck first, and the kitchen clock immediately after. But last night I never

heard the town clock strike at all. The kitchen clock must have been altered

somehow or other. Unless – unless – unless, by gosh! I wonder if that could

be it. Yes. Yes, it’s possible. Just before that clock struck twelve, Waters

stopped snoring.’

He ran from the room and plunged hastily into No. 8. Like his own

room, it was in disorder. Like his own room, it did not appear to have been

dusted for weeks. And on the night-table by Waters’s bed, which stood

close against the thin partition between the two rooms, there was a mark in

the dust, as though some object measuring about three inches by three and a

half had stood there during the night.

Mr Egg darted out of the room and along the corridor. He fell up the

two ill-lighted steps with a curse, turned the corner and burst into the

bathroom. Its window looked out upon a narrow side-street, communicating

at one end with the main road and at the other with a lane that ran between

warehouses. Rushing downstairs, Mr Egg caught Inspector Monk just

emerging from the coffee-room.

‘Hold Cobb!’ panted Mr Egg. ‘I believe I’ve bust his alibi. Where’s

Waters gone to? I want to put a call through to him. Quick!’

‘Waters said he was catching a train to Sawcaster,’ said Monk, rather

astonished.

‘Then,’ said Monty, calling upon his professional knowledge, ‘he’ll put

up at the Ring o’ Bells, and he’ll visit Hunter’s, Merriman’s and Hackett &

Brown’s. We’ll get him at one place or the other.’

After a hectic half-hour at the telephone, he ran his quarry to earth at

one of Sawcaster’s leading confectionery establishments.

‘Waters,’ gasped Monty urgently, ‘I want you to answer some questions,

old man, and you can ask me why afterwards. Never mind how silly they

sound. Do you carry a travelling-clock? You do? What’s it like? Old-

fashioned repeater? Yes? About three inches square – squarish? Yes? Stood

on your bed-table last night? Does it strike on a coiled spring? It does?

Thank heaven for that! Deep, quick, soft note like a church bell? Yes, yes,

yes! Now, old boy, think hard. Did you wake up last night and strike that

repeater? You did? You’re sure? Good man! At what time? It struck twelve?

What time does that mean? Any time between twelve and one o’clock?

Then, for God’s sake, Waters, take the next train back to Cuttlesbury,

because your dashed clock has nearly made you and me accomplices in a

murder. Yes, MURDER … Hold on a moment, Inspector Monk wants to

speak to you.’

‘Well,’ said the Inspector, as he replaced the receiver, ‘your evidence

might have landed us in a nice pickle, mightn’t it? It’s a good job you had

that brain-wave. Now we’ll go through Mr Dirty Cobb’s luggage and see if

he’s got any more juicy photos. I suppose he took ’em along to show

Pringle.’

‘That’s it. I couldn’t understand how the murderer got into the room.

Naturally Pringle would lock his door. But of course he’d left it open for

Cobb, who’d promised to slip along later and show him something to make

his hair curl – “on the strict qt” and all that. It must have given Cobb a

shock when Pringle yelled and I knocked at the door. But he was all there, I

will say that for him. He’s probably a first-class salesman in his own rotten

line. “Don’t let a sudden question rout you, but always keep your wits about

you”, as it says in the Handbook.’

‘But look here,’ said the Inspector, ‘what did he do with Pringle’s bag?’

‘Dropped it out of the bathroom window to the accomplice he had

summoned by phone from Tadworthy. Why, dash it all!’ cried Monty,

wiping his forehead, ‘I heard the car go by, just after that confounded clock

struck twelve.’