“What’s the exact situation, Sergeant?” Markham asked. “Dinwiddie gave me only the barest facts.”
Heath cleared his throat.
“We got the word a little before seven. Benson’s housekeeper, a Mrs. Platz, called up the local station and reported that she’d found him dead, and asked that somebody be sent over at once. The message, of course, was relayed to Headquarters. I wasn’t there at the time, but Burke and Emery were on duty, and after notifying Inspector Moran, they came on up here. Several of the men from the local station were already on the job doing the usual nosing about. When the Inspector had got here and looked the situation over, he telephoned me to hurry along. When I arrived, the local men had gone, and three more men from the Homicide Bureau had joined Burke and Emery. The Inspector also ’phoned Captain Hagedorn—he thought the case big enough to call him in on it at once—and the Captain had just got here when you arrived. Mr. Dinwiddie had come in right after the Inspector and ’phoned you at once. Chief Inspector O’Brien came along a little ahead of me. I questioned the Platz woman right off; and my men were looking the place over when you showed up.”
“Where’s this Mrs. Platz now?” asked Markham.
“Upstairs being watched by one of the local men. She lives in the house.”
“Why did you mention the specific hour of twelve-thirty to the doctor?”
“Platz told me she heard a report at that time, which I thought might have been the shot. I guess now it was the shot—it checks up with a number of things.”
“I think we’d better have another talk with Mrs. Platz,” Markham suggested. “But first: did you find anything suggestive in the room here—anything to go on?”
Heath hesitated almost imperceptibly; then he drew from his coat pocket a woman’s handbag and a pair of long white kid gloves, and tossed them on the table in front of the District Attorney.
“Only these,” he said. “One of the local men found them on the end of the mantel over there.”
After a casual inspection of the gloves, Markham opened the handbag and turned its contents out onto the table. I came forward and looked on, but Vance remained in his chair, placidly smoking a cigarette.
The handbag was of fine gold mesh with a catch set with small sapphires. It was unusually small, and obviously designed only for evening wear. The objects which it had held, and which Markham was now inspecting, consisted of a flat watered-silk cigarette case, a small gold phial of Roger and Gallet’s Fleurs d’Amour perfume, a cloisonné vanity-compact, a short delicate cigarette holder of inlaid amber, a gold-cased lipstick, a small embroidered French-linen hand-kerchief with “M. St.C.” monogrammed in the corner, and a Yale latchkey.
“This ought to give us a good lead,” said Markham, indicating the handkerchief. “I suppose you went over the articles carefully, Sergeant.”
Heath nodded.
“Yes; and I imagine the bag belongs to the woman Benson was out with last night. The housekeeper told me he had an appointment and went out to dinner in his dress clothes. She didn’t hear Benson when he came back, though. Anyway, we ought to be able to run down Miss ‘M. St.C.’ without much trouble.”
Markham had taken up the cigarette case again, and as he held it upside down a little shower of loose dried tobacco fell onto the table.
Heath stood up suddenly.
“Maybe those cigarettes came out of that case,” he suggested. He picked up the intact butt and looked at it. “It’s a lady’s cigarette, all right. It looks as though it might have been smoked in a holder, too.”
“I beg to differ with you, Sergeant,” drawled Vance. “You’ll forgive me, I’m sure. But there’s a bit of lip rouge on the end of the cigarette. It’s hard to see, on account of the gold tip.”
Heath looked at Vance sharply; he was too much surprised to be resentful. After a closer inspection of the cigarette, he turned again to Vance.
“Perhaps you could also tell us from these tobacco grains, if the cigarettes came from this case,” he suggested, with gruff irony.
“One never knows, does one?” Vance replied, indolently rising.
Picking up the case, he pressed it wide open and tapped it on the table. Then he looked into it closely, and a humorous smile twitched the corners of his mouth. Putting his forefinger deep into the case, he drew out a small cigarette which had evidently been wedged flat along the bottom of the pocket.
“My olfact’ry gifts won’t be necess’ry now,” he said. “It is apparent even to the naked eye that the cigarettes are, to speak loosely, identical—eh what, Sergeant?”
Heath grinned good-naturedly.
“That’s one on us, Mr. Markham.” And he carefully put the cigarette and the stub in an envelope, which he marked and pocketed.
“You now see, Vance,” observed Markham, “the importance of those cigarette butts.”
“Can’t say that I do,” responded the other. “Of what possible value is a cigarette butt? You can’t smoke it, y’ know.”
“It’s evidence, my dear fellow,” explained Markham patiently. “One knows that the owner of this bag returned with Benson last night and remained long enough to smoke two cigarettes.”
Vance lifted his eyebrows in mock amazement.
“One does, does one? Fancy that, now.”
“It only remains to locate her,” interjected Heath.
“She’s a rather decided brunette, at any rate—if that fact will facilitate your quest any,” said Vance easily; “though why you should desire to annoy the lady, I can’t for the life of me imagine—really I can’t, don’t y’ know.”
“Why do you say she’s a brunette?” asked Markham.
“Well, if she isn’t,” Vance told him, sinking listlessly back in his chair, “then she should consult a cosmetician as to the proper way to make up. I see she uses ‘Rachel’ powder and Guerlain’s dark lipstick. And it simply isn’t done among blondes, old dear.”
“I defer, of course, to your expert opinion,” smiled Markham. Then, to Heath: “I guess we’ll have to look for a brunette, Sergeant.”
“It’s all right with me,” agreed Heath jocularly. By this time, I think, he had entirely forgiven Vance for destroying the cigarette butt.
* Vance’s eyes were slightly bifocal. His right eye was 1.2 astigmatic, whereas his left eye was practically normal.
If you love Golden Age mysteries and are perhaps ready for something more traditional after Philo Vance’s citified airs, may we suggest the Henry Tibbett series, by Patricia Moyes? The Tibbett novels, though more recent, are classics in the “steady English Detective Inspector knows what’s what” mode, made more charming by the good Inspector’s astute and lovable wife. We’ve included the first few chapters of Dead Men Don’t Ski (Henry Tibbett #1), and we hope you enjoy meeting Henry and Emmy.
DEAD MEN DON’T SKI
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS JUST NINE O’CLOCK on a cold and clammy January morning when Chief Inspector Henry Tibbett’s taxi drew up outside the uninviting cavern of Victoria Station. From the suburban lines the Saturday morning hordes of office-bound workers streamed anxiously through the barriers to bus and underground—pale, strained faces, perpetually in a hurry, perpetually late: but here, at this side-entrance that led into a sort of warehouse fitted with an imposing array of weighing platforms, were assembled a group of people who looked as paradoxical at that hour and place as a troupe of Nautch girls at the Athenæum. They were not all young, Henry noted with relief, though the average age was certainly under thirty: but young or middle-aged, male or female, all were unanimous in their defiant sartorial abandon—the tightest trousers, the gaudiest sweaters, the heaviest boots, the silliest knitted hats that ever burst from the overcharged imagination of a Winter Sports Department. The faces were pale, true, but—Henry noted with a sinking heart—quite aggressively merry and free from any sign of stress: the voices were unnaturally loud and friendly. The whole dingy place had the air of a monstrous end-of-term party.
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��Will you pay the taxi, darling, while I cope with the luggage?” Emmy’s amused voice recalled Henry from his fascinated appraisal of the dog beneath the Englishman’s skin.
“Yes, yes, of course. No, don’t try to lift it… I’ll get a porter…”
The taxi grumbled on its way, and Henry was gratified to see that a small porter with the face of a malevolent monkey, who had been lounging by the wall rolling a cigarette with maddening deliberation, now came forward to offer his services.
“Santa Chiara, sir? ’Ave you got skis to register through?” The porter almost smiled.
“No,” said Henry. “We’re hiring them out there. We’ve just got—”
But the porter had abruptly lost interest, and transferred his attentions to a taxi which had just drawn up, and which most evidently had skis to register through. A man with a smooth red face and unmistakably military bearing was getting out, followed by a bristling forest of skis and sticks, and a large woman with a bad-tempered expression. As the wizened porter swept the skis and sticks expertly onto his trolley, Henry caught sight of a boldly written label—“Col. Buckfast, Albergo Bella Vista, Santa Chiara, Italy. Via Innsbruck.”
“They’re at our hotel,” he muttered miserably to Emmy.
She grinned. “Never mind. So are those nice youngsters over there.”
Henry turned to see a group of three young people, who were certainly outstanding as far as good looks were concerned. The girl was about twenty years old, Henry judged, with short-cropped hair and brilliantly candid blue eyes. One of the young men was quite remarkably handsome, fair and grey-eyed, with very beautiful hands—at once strong and sensitive (“I’ve seen his picture somewhere,” whispered Emmy). The other youth did not quite achieve the standard of physical perfection set by the rest of the party—he was tall and thin, with a beak of a nose and dark hair that was rather too long—but he made up for it by the dazzling appearance of his clothes. His trousers, skintight, were pale blue, like a Ruritanian officer’s in a musical comedy: his sweater was the yellow of egg yolks, with geranium-red reindeer circumnavigating it just below the armpits: his woollen cap, in shape like the ultimate decoration of a cream cake, was royal blue. At the moment, he was laughing uproariously, slapping a spindly blue leg with a bamboo ski-stick.
“Good heavens,” said Henry. “That’s Jimmy Passendell—old Raven’s youngest son. He’s…” He hesitated, because the idea seemed ludicrous—“…he’s a member of Lloyd’s.”
At that moment a burly porter, evidently deciding that the time had come to clear the pavement for newcomers, seized Henry’s luggage unceremoniously, tucking a suitcase under each arm and picking up the other two with effortless ease; and with a bellow of “Where to, sir?” he disappeared into the station without waiting for an answer.
Henry and Emmy trotted dutifully after him, and found themselves beside a giant weighing machine, which at the moment was laden with skis.
“Which registered?” asked the porter laconically, twirling Emmy’s dressing case playfully in his huge hand.
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand about…” Henry began, feeling almost unbearably foolish. Everybody else obviously understood.
“Registered goes straight through—Customs here—don’t see it again till Innsbruck,” said the porter, pityingly.
“We’ll register the two big ones,” said Emmy firmly.
For the next few minutes Henry trotted between luggage, porter, and ticket office like a flustered but conscientious mother bird intent on satisfying her brood’s craving for worms—the worms in this case being those cryptic bits of paper which railway officials delight to stamp, perforate, clip, and shake their heads over. Eventually all was done, the Customs cleared, and Henry and Emmy were safely installed, with the two smaller cases, in the corner seats reserved for their journey to Dover.
Henry sank back with a sigh in which relief was not unmingled with apprehension. For the moment they had the carriage to themselves, and the screaming chaos of the luggage shed had given way to the sounds of muted excitement which precede the departure of a long-distance train.
“I suppose the Yard know what they’re doing,” said Henry. “Because I don’t. I wish we’d decided to do our skiing somewhere else.”
“Nonsense,” said Emmy. “I’m enjoying myself. And I haven’t seen anybody in the least suspicious yet, except the taxi driver and that screwed-up porter.”
Henry gave her a reproving, walls-have-ears glance, and opened his Times, turning gratefully to the civilised solace of the crossword puzzle.
Henry Tibbett was not a man who looked like a great detective. In fact, as he would be the first to point out, he was not a great detective, but a conscientious and observant policeman, with an occasional flair for intuitive detection which he called “my nose.” There were very few of his superiors who were not prepared to listen, and to take appropriate action, when Henry said, suddenly, “My nose tells me we’re on the wrong lines. Why not tackle it this way?” The actual nose in question was as pleasant—and as unremarkable—as the rest of Henry Tibbett. A small man, sandy-haired and with pale eyebrows and lashes which emphasised his general air of timidity, he had spent most of his forty-eight years trying to avoid trouble—with a conspicuous lack of success.
“It’s not my fault,” he once remarked plaintively to Emmy, “that things always seem to blow up at my feet.” The consequence was that he had a wide and quite undeserved reputation as a desperado, an adventurer who hid his bravura under a mask of meekness: and his repeated assertions that he only wanted to lead a quiet life naturally fed the flames of this rumour.
Emmy, of course, knew Henry as he really was—and knew that the truth about him lay somewhere between the swashbuckling figure of his subordinates’ imagination, and the mild and mousy character he protested himself to be. She knew, too—and it reassured and comforted her—that Henry needed her placid strength and good humour as much as he needed food and drink. She was forty now—not as slim as she had been, but with a pleasantly curving figure and a pleasantly intelligent face. Her most striking feature was her skin, which was wonderfully white and fair, a piquant contrast to her curly black hair.
She looked at her watch. “We’ll be off soon” she said. “I wonder who else is in our carriage.”
They very soon found out. Mrs. Buckfast’s voice could be heard raised in complaint a full corridor away, before she finally entered the carriage like a man-o’-war under full sail. Her seat, naturally, was the wrong one. She had definitely been given to understand that she would have a corner seat, facing the engine.
“I can only say, Arthur,” she said, her eyes fixed on Henry, “that reservations seem to mean absolutely nothing to some people.” Unhappily, Henry offered her his seat. Mrs. Buckfast started, as though seeing him for the first time; then accepted the seat with a bad grace.
Soon a cheerful commotion in the corridor heralded the arrival of Jimmy Passendell and his party. (“Seven in a carriage is far too many,” Mrs. Buckfast announced to nobody in particular.) The girl became engrossed in the latest copy of the Tatler. Colonel Buckfast nodded briefly at the handsome young man, and said, “Back again this year, eh? Had a feeling you might be.” The young man remarked that he hoped the snow would be as good as it had been the year before, and proceeded to cope expertly with the baggage, even coaxing a sour smile from Mrs. Buckfast by lifting a large number of small cases up to the rack for her. Jimmy Passendell immediately counteracted this momentary lightening of the atmosphere by producing a mouth organ and inviting the company to join him in the chorus of “Dear Old Pals.”
“After all,” he remarked brightly, “we soon shall be—we’re all going to Santa Chiara, aren’t we—to the Bella Vista.” After a pause, he added, “Yippee!” The pretty blonde giggled; the handsome youth looked uncomfortable; the Colonel and Henry retreated still further behind their respective Times; Emmy laughed outright, and produced a tin of digestive biscuits, which she offered to all and sundry
. The young people fell on them with whoops of delight, and for a time conversation was mercifully replaced by a contented munching. The train moved slowly out of Victoria into the mist.
The channel was grey and cold, but calm. The skiers clumped cheerfully up the gangplank in their resounding boots, and made a concerted dash for the warmth and solace of the saloon, dining room or bar according to temperament. As the steamer moved slowly away from the dockside and out of the narrow harbour entrance, Henry and Emmy had the deck to themselves. They leant over the rail, savouring the peace, the absence of strident human voices, and watching the familiar outline of the cliffs grow dim in the haze.
“There’s nobody else going to Santa Chiara,” said Emmy, at last. “And none of that lot look like dope-peddlers to me, whatever other failings they may have.”
“The whole thing’s probably a wild goose chase,” said Henry. “I hope it is. Heaven knows I don’t want any trouble. I want to learn to ski. After all, we are on holiday.”
“Are we?” Emmy gave him a rueful smile. “Just pure coincidence that we’re going to the hotel which Interpol thinks is a smugglers’ den?”
“It was just my luck to pick that particular place,” said Henry, ruefully. “And when Sir John heard we were going there, I couldn’t very well refuse to keep my eyes open.”
“Interpol know you’re going to be there, though, don’t they?”
The Winter Murder Case Page 14
