Death Has Deep Roots Read Online Free PDF Page A

word with him in his Surrey home. Macrea tore the heart from the pile of documents with trained rapidity and his conclusion was the same as Mr. Rumbold’s had been.
    “We want facts,” he said. “I’ll read the papers more carefully this evening, and I’ll make your application for you tomorrow, but if we’re going to achieve anything we shall want more facts. You can’t go out shooting without ammunition.”
    “I rather thought,” said Nap, “that I might get a line on both those military witnesses through Uncle Alfred. He knows General Rockingham-Hawse in Establishments.”
    “Cedarbrook? Yes, that’s quite a good idea.”
    “What about the hotel people? The proprietor and waiter and—what’s her name?—Mrs. Roper. We’ve got to shake her evidence or we might as well pack up.”
    “I had an idea about that, too,” said Nap. “What about McCann?”
    “Who’s he?”
    “Well. He keeps a pub in Shepherd Market – I met him first in the army, and we’ve done one or two jobs together since. He’d do anything for a bit of excitement.”
    “Sounds a broad-minded man,” said Macrea. “See if he’ll do it for you. Nothing official, mind. Just an inquiry to see what he can pick up. That leaves the main field clear for you.” He thought for a moment and then said gently, “You’ve got to find Wells.”
    This blunt statement of the problem produced a pause.
    “Wells,” said Mr. Rumbold. “The idea about Wells seems to be that he’s dead.”
    “It hasn’t been proved,” said Macrea. “And even if he is dead he may have left some things – some sort of message. I take it,” he added with a shrewd glance at Mr. Rumbold, “that the line we are going on is that everything this girl says is true.”
    “Certainly,” said Mr. Rumbold.
    “All right,” said Macrea. “I just wanted to be sure. Well, the way to break the prosecution case wide open would be to produce Wells in court, to swear the child was his. That would dispose of the motive, and half their case – the stronger half – would fall to the ground.”
    “If he’s alive.”
    “Even if he isn’t,” said Macrea, “there’s a chance that he may have written – I suppose it was possible to send messages from Occupied France.”
    “Oh, yes,” said Nap. “It wasn’t a twice-daily collection, but it was fairly reliable.”
    “Well, then, if he wrote to anybody during those three or four weeks, he’d have been bound to mention the girl. Or he may have left a diary. People did that sort of thing. You’ll have to find out all you can about the French side of it.”
    “The real question is, where do we start?”
    “Start with the girl,” said Macrea.
     
    Accordingly, on Monday afternoon, after Macrea, as has already been related, had made his successful application for a week’s postponement, Nap again visited Holloway Prison, accompanied this time by his father.
    They found Vicky in excellent spirits. She had, it appeared, been most favorably impressed by the judge.
    “ Homme très sympathique ,” she observed.
    Mr. Rumbold agreed with her. Six months before he had heard him pronouncing sentence of death in just that cultivated, articulate, considerate voice. He did not, of course, mention this, but brought the conversation quickly round to the subject of his visit.
    “Julian? He is still alive.”
    “You haven’t heard from him—?”
    “No. But I feel it. It is a matter, you understand, that one is bound to feel. A man who has been one’s lover.”
    “Quite so,” said Mr. Rumbold. “It had occurred to me to wonder if, during that time, when he was – when he was staying with you, did Lieutenant Wells give you any information which would enable us to trace his past life.”
    “He was orphaned – poor boy.”
    “Yes. We knew that. The military authorities have given us such data as they had in his records, date and place of birth and education, and so on. But the detailed records only start when he joined up, in