Cecil, about to have recourse to tears, changed his mind and asked with confounding simplicity what Charlesworth knew and how he knew it. Charlesworth, increasingly mysterious as he became increasingly out of his depth, replied that the police had ways and means. Cecil looked uncomfortable, but stuck to his guns and repeated with maddening monotony, “Well, what do you know?”
“We know that you kept the oxalic acid that was given over to you by the charwoman at Christophe’s and used it for purposes of your own—very terrible purposes.”
“Oh, no,” cried Cecil, but his voice went into a thin wail.
“Oh, yes! And it places you in a position where you may find yourself in the hands of the law upon a very grave charge.”
“Oh, no,” wailed Cecil.
“Oh, yes! You’re afraid for your life, aren’t you, Mr. Cecil” (My God, I believe he’s going to own up to it! thought Charlesworth).
But half an hour later they were still at it—question and answer, question and answer, question and answer. “I don’t want to charge him,” said Charlesworth to Bedd, taking a short respite at twelve-thirty. “I can’t quite fathom what it’s all about, can you? and we don’t want to make any false steps. I’ll give him another half-hour, and if he doesn’t cough up we shall have to let him go for a bit … now then, Mr. Cecil …”
Question and answer, question and answer, question and answer. At one o’clock precisely Cecil put his head in his hands and confessed.
Ten
1
GREGORY had been right about the customers. The funeral decently over, they flocked into the showroom like elegant birds of prey and the staff, miserable and disgusted, were forced to answer their impertinent questions and satisfy their craving for sensation. The girls, despite their reception of Gregory’s speech, were sufficiently hard-headed to realize that they must meet this situation in as willing a spirit as possible, and they accordingly agreed a hundred times a day that Doon had been terribly nice, that it was all terribly sad, that it was a terribly mysterious thing to have happened. Sales went up by leaps and bounds; clients, anxious to exhibit their connection with the now famous salon, introduced their friends; lifelong customers of the other great dress-houses suddenly decided upon a change of style; the brides of the moment would hardly have felt married without at least something in their trousseaux from Christophe et Cie. By six o’clock on the Monday evening Bevan had twice ’phoned the Labour Exchange for new workroom hands and the three salesgirls and the mannequins had collapsed, worn out with the strain of the day, in the little room where, only a week ago, they had so light-heartedly cleaned the panama hat. Even Gregory came to join them there, looking tired and nervy, and raised her voice with theirs in protest against the clientele of Christophe et Cie. “I knew it would happen,” she said, unable to keep the smugness out of her voice. “I told Mr. Bevan last week that this would happen; but I had no idea it would be so flagrant. Lady Crabb actually asked me if I thought it could be one of the showroom girls who had done it; and Mrs. Piggot wanted me to give her something of Doon’s—could you believe that people could be so awful?”
“That’s funny, Gregory, because Lady Crabb asked me if I thought it could be you!” said Aileen, smiling wanly.
“I had an awful old woman who wanted to know if we’d all go to a party at her house,” said Rachel. “It’s just incredible. She said she would pay for every one of us to have a new frock, designed by Cecil, if we would have it in black and wear it at her party; she ordered a black velvet copy of Cissie’s old green model—you know, the one with the horrid little bitty frills all over it. I suppose it was to be a sort of mourning party. It nearly made me sick. The only consolation was Cissie’s face when I asked him to copy the green model in black velvet!”
“Aren’t there any nice, normal people left in the world?” said Victoria.
“I haven’t come across any to-day,” said Irene, bitterly. “They looked at me as if I had been in a freak show.”
“Oh, darling, you imagine it!”
“No, I don’t have to,” said Irene, sadly, “because it’s true. And a lot more letters came this afternoon; Bevan took them and tore them all up, but I saw them. I suppose there’ll be hundreds at home and those horrible women from the next flat will come knocking at my door as soon as I get in, poking and prying and asking inquisitive questions. It seems funny to think that only a week ago, the worst I had against them was that they left a dirty ring round the bath. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was them that sent the letter I got last night.”
“You can’t go home to that, Rene,” said Victoria, firmly. “You must come back and sleep on the sofa in the flat. Oh, no, you can’t, though, because the Dazzler’s sister is having it to-night. Damn! What can we do now?”
“She could come with me,” said Aileen, “if she doesn’t mind sharing a bed.”
Victoria knew that the fastidious Irene would mind very much. Rachel made the same offer in a rather doubtful tone of voice and Judy confessed that the house was full up with her lousy relations and she didn’t think they could squeeze another person in anywhere. “But you have sort of guest-rooms at your flats, haven’t you, Gregory? Couldn’t Irene take one of those for to-night, and then perhaps tomorrow she could go to Toria’s; or I might make Mummy see reason and turn out one of the aunts.”
“Yes, of course, that’s a marvellous idea,” said Gregory. “They’re nice little rooms, Irene, on the ground floor, with private bathrooms—like tiny flats, really. I can lend you pyjamas and things and—er—I’ll have it put down on my rent, dear, so don’t worry about that part of it.” She spoke with genuine kindness and Irene, who was indeed overcome with depression at the idea of going back to her solitary, haunted little room, accepted gratefully.
“And come and have supper with me in my flat,” added Gregory, the milk of human kindness overflowing.
This was rather more than Irene could bear; she cast an appealing look at Victoria, who rose most nobly to the occasion.
“No, I’ve got a brilliant idea,” she cried, before Gregory could press her point. “Let’s have a party at Rene’s one-night flat. Bobby can take his sister out to dinner and I’ll bring a bottle of sherry from home, and anything else I can find; Gregory, you needn’t produce anything, as you’re standing Irene her room for the night; Rachel can bring some fruit or some cake or something, and Aileen something else, and Judy something else—don’t you think that’s a good idea? We’ve all had rather a grisly day and we’ll make a vow not to mention poor Doon or the shop the whole evening. Whoever does will have to pay a penny, and we’ll put the proceeds towards a fund for keeping Irene in luxury guest-rooms for the rest of her days.”
They broke up, laughing and refreshed. Irene and Gregory went ahead to book a room in the great block of flats where Gregory had her expensive one-room flatlet; Victoria flew home to abstract a bottle of the Dazzler’s precious sherry and to raid her refrigerator for butter, cheese, and lettuces, and the remaining three girls dashed off to the shops for chocolates, fruit, and cake. “We only need a tin of cocoa and some Nestlé’s milk to be back at school,” said Rachel, half laughing, half cross. “What an ass Toria is, to let us in for this! We shall be all girls-together with Gregory before we know where we are, indulging in midnight feasts in this riotous fashion!”
Bevan, alone in his office, looked through the order book for the day. A heap of letters was pushed through the slit in the door.; he glanced at them and all those addressed to Irene he tossed into the wastepaper-basket. Business was booming, right in the middle of the out-of-season, and nothing worried Bevan any more.
The party was not an unqualified success. Gregory and Irene had decided that the temporary flat was not large enough to accommodate them all, so a message had been left with the porter that the young ladies were to come straight upstairs, and it was held in Gregory’s room. They studiously avoided all reference to the cloud that hung so darkly over them; but Irene could not forget the shock
of that terrible morning’s post nor the morbid scrutiny of the customers; and at nine o’clock she announced that, sweet and kind though they had all been, her nerves were at breaking point and she thought she would go to bed. Rachel, looking at the dark lines under her eyes, suggested aspirin and a hot drink; no aspirins were forthcoming, but Gregory had some sleeping powders, and though they were a prescription specially made up for her, she didn’t think they would harm anybody, and suggested that Irene should try one. “I’ll warm up some milk for you,” she said, “and we can mix a powder into that and you can take it and go straight down to bed. The powders are in a little black box, Victoria, in the bathroom cupboard; you get them, will you, and I’ll hot up the milk.”
Gregory was enjoying herself enormously. Her consideration for Irene had thawed the coldness towards her of the other girls, and she could not do enough to show her eagerness or prove her worthiness to stay within the magic circle. She produced a beaker of foaming milk (“You just beat it up with a whisk, dear; people always ask me, but it’s perfectly simple really”), and Victoria, having found the black box, carefully mixed in the contents of one of the tiny white packets. “I’ll come down and see you into bed, Rene,” she said, as Irene gratefully drank her hot milk. “Come on, Gregory, you and I’ll go down with her and the others can wait here for us.” The three of them took the lift to the ground floor.
At the door of Irene’s room a small contretemps arose. The room had been taken in Gregory’s name and the porter had handed the keys to her; she had, unthinkingly, put them straight into her handbag, and had now forgotten to bring them down with her. As she returned to the lift, however, a porter hove in sight and opened the door for them with his master-key and Irene led the way inside.
“I’ll leave a glass of water near you,” said Gregory, anxious to think of everything, “and I’ll put the box of powders beside it, and if you don’t sleep within half an hour or so, you can take another one. I’ve never had to yet, but the doctor told me I could if they didn’t work within reasonable time.”
“I shouldn’t come into Christophe’s till late to-morrow morning,” said Victoria, proceeding vigorously with the tucking-in. “Bevan will understand. We’ll tell him that you weren’t well this evening. Gregory can pop in on her way to work and see how you are. She’s got a key, so she needn’t disturb you.”
“I was an idiot to leave them upstairs,” said Gregory. “You’ll have to have one in the morning, Irene, so Toria had better drop it in through the letter-box on her way down to-night. Good night now, dear, and sleep well and forget all your worries.” To Irene’s horror she bent down and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“Bless you, darling,” said Victoria, sparing her further demonstrations of affection. I’ll put out the light; shall I? Bless you.”
“Bless you, darling,” said Irene, and they went quietly out.
Victoria stayed talking to Gregory after the others had gone. She was worried about Judy, who, unaccustomed to guarded speech and utterly opposed to anything bordering upon insincerity, was something of a bombshell to be loosed among inquisitive customers. “She told you that she wouldn’t be polite to them, Gregory,” said Victoria, taking advantage of the evening’s friendliness to press her point, “and although she is trying for all our sakes, she won’t be able to keep it up much longer. Can’t you get Bevan to make some sort of new arrangement for the mannequins, so that they don’t have to speak to the clients? The less Aileen says the better, she’s such an idiot, bless her heart; and Judy will let fly one of these days as sure as eggs is eggs. They could just come in and show the frocks and buzz off again, instead of standing about; lots of houses do it like that in the ordinary way, and the models never speak to the customers at all.…”
When, soon after ten, she left the flat, she felt that she had never known Gregory so well, or liked her so much. She bade her an almost affectionate good-night, and shot down in the lift to the ground floor.
2
Charlesworth, meanwhile, had had a depressing day. After Cecil’s collapse he had sought an interview with his chief and, in an agony of humiliation, confessed that he was no nearer a solution of the case and thought that he should hand it over to one of his seniors. “I’ve done my best, sir,” he said, miserably, “but I don’t seem to have got any forrader and I’m afraid that I may be wasting precious time. I’ll hand over all the information to whoever you say, and see if he can do any better with it.”
The superintendent was relieved of considerable embarrassment. He knew that a set-back of this kind would be extremely disheartening to an ordinarily capable and reliable officer and he had hitherto hesitated before insisting upon interference. Now that the suggestion had come from Charlesworth himself, however, his path was made considerably easier and he handed out comfort and encouragement on the one hand, while on the other he painlessly removed a large share of responsibility from the young man’s shoulders. Contemporary with Charlesworth was that gentleman whom he had sought to confound in the matter of Cecil and the big black trunk; all unaware of the mutual detestation between these young men, the Chief suggested that, while Charlesworth retained his original status in charge of the case, Inspector Smithers should be put to work on it with him, and see if he could shed further light on what was certainly a most bewildering affair. Charlesworth, stifling his disgust, humbly acquiesced and sought out his pet aversion at the Yard.
Smithers was a pale, stout, puffy youth, with an unhealthy back to his neck and a general air of street urchin which inspired in all comers a longing to take a large handkerchief and wipe his blameless nose. He had, moreover, the guttersnipe type of brain, sharp, showy and nimble, but without depth or understanding. Rapid promotion had not added to his modesty. He leant back in his chair, twiddling his thumbs and listening with an air of insufferable efficiency to the outline of the case.
“That’s the whole story,” said Charlesworth, as he finished it. “The only thing which we have for fairly certain is that I think Cecil can be counted out of it. His explanation hangs together very nicely. His friend was walking out on him with the avowed (though rather optimistic) intention of getting married to someone that Cecil didn’t like; and you have to know the two of them to appreciate what a how-d’you-do they could make of that simple fact. Suddenly, out of the blue, Cecil is given a surprise packet of poison, and it comes all over him that he will take it home and have some sort of an emotional scene with Elliot, scheduled to end in tears and reconciliation. Instead, he finds that the bird really has flown; he orders dinner for two, choosing all Elliot’s special favourites, and sits down to wait for the footsteps that never come, feeling more and more like a film hero—or, if you like, heroine—as the time goes by. Finally, he eats a feeble meal, and because he’s afraid of the servants talking, he does what he can to hide the fact that Elliot has never turned up; then he wanders about the flat packing up the beloved possessions, with all the accompanying pangs and trimmings; and when at the witching hour he realizes that Elliot really isn’t coming back, he can bear it no longer and resolves to put an end to his miserable existence by taking the poison himself. If you know the type, you won’t want to be told that he takes jolly good care that the end won’t be a final one, and all he gets is a nasty pain, a violent headache, and a lot of very unromantic vomiting. He arrives at the shop the next morning to find that Doon has died overnight, after a pretty ghastly time—you remember he was out at the Ritz with Mrs. Best when the girl was taken ill—and the very thought of what he nearly let himself in for is a nightmare. He blenches at the mention of suicide—I couldn’t think why he seemed so pleased at the idea that Doon was murdered, but it wasn’t that—he was only registering relief when I got off the subject of self-destruction. With so much of the law knocking about he became terrified that he would be found out and punished for felo-de-se, but he couldn’t resist an orgy of revelation to his mother, and I suppose that’s what Tomlinson’s girl friend overheard. A nice dance he’s led me,
the silly beggar, and a nice lot of my time he’s wasted; but at least that accounts for his share of the crystals and leaves us only two spoonfuls unaccounted for, including the little that was spilt on the floor when Rachel Gay and Mrs. David first brought it into the shop, and the doubtful amount that was actually used in cleaning the hat.”
“You’re sure no other poison was brought into the place?” asked Smithers.
“Oh, certain. No one went out through the showroom door till after lunch, when Cecil and Irene Best went off to their appointment; and the area steps were being watched by Mrs. Harris at all the relevant times.”
“Have you inquired at the neighbouring chemists?”
“No, why should I? There was no opportunity to go out and get more, and no necessity. The poison was there and that’s obviously what was used.”
“I think I should have made inquiries all the same,” said Smithers, smugly. “Shall we detail someone to do it now?”
Charlesworth squirmed but agreed.
“Now, this other small quantity of the poison—the stuff Miss Doon herself got hold of—are you sure that wasn’t used?”
“Of course I’m sure, man. It was sitting there in the desk as large as life.”
“The secretary girl, McEnery, had a very convincing motive, hadn’t she?”
“Yes, she had, I quite agree; but there’s stacks of evidence to show that she was not given a spot more poison than was found in the desk; she didn’t leave the office for a moment between the time she brought it downstairs and the time she went into lunch. Bevan was with her and Doon and he swears to that. Besides, the charwoman was in the kitchen and would have seen her going through the dining-room and up the area steps, or up the stairs, whichever way she might have gone.”
“She couldn’t have gone up the stairs and into Bevan’s office at the top of them and through the back door of that office out into the street?”
Death in High Heels Page 15
