Devious Murder

by George Bellairs

  ‘Sorry, we don’t speak Welsh,’ said Cromwell right away. ‘Do you mind …?’

  ‘I beg pardon. I was simply greeting my husband.’

  She was taking advantage of the absence of her mistress, for she wore black slacks and a purple jumper. Morgan introduced her. She was the dominant partner and took over from her husband right away.

  ‘You wish to see over the house, Mr. Cairncross says.’

  ‘Not exactly, at present. Just to take a look at the rooms that overlook the flats next door.’

  ‘Mr. Cairncross tells me there’s been a murder there. Very sad and awkward. I don’t know what Mrs. Havenith will have to say about this. She’s a very sensitive lady.…’

  She looked at the assembled party.

  ‘Shall we proceed then?’

  Cairncross intervened.

  ‘Excuse me. Would you two gentlemen care to see the safe first. It’s in the study and you were interested in it, I think.’

  His aggressiveness had disappeared and, if he didn’t adopt a very respectful attitude towards the police, he certainly regarded Mrs. Morgan with deference.

  ‘That will be all right,’ she said.

  The hall was large and panelled in oak. Numerous doors led from it and Mrs. Morgan opened one and led the party inside. The walls were lined on three sides with batteries of books and there was a cosy informal look about the room. There was a huge fireplace, converted to electricity, with a large mirror overmantel. On either side of it the wall was decorated with framed autographed portraits of celebrities and portrait miniatures. There was a winged arm-chair on each side and a variety of smaller chairs scattered here and there.

  ‘Shall I …?’ said Cairncross addressing Mrs. Morgan.

  She nodded.

  He crossed to one of the set of bookshelves, almost furtively manipulated a catch on one side, and four shelves of books swivelled away from the rest and revealed a cavity in which a safe door was visible.

  Cairncross stood aside and with a gesture of his hand invited the detectives to inspect the safe.

  ‘No need to open it, is there?’

  ‘Not for the present. How many people know of the existence of this safe?’

  Mrs. Morgan answered.

  ‘Most of the staff, I expect. Although, in engaging them, I always insist on the need for discretion and that there must be no discussion outside the house of what goes on here. All the same, there is no way of stopping them from gossiping and as the secret of the safe is unusual they doubtless talk about it and even investigate it when we are not about.’

  ‘I gather that you and your husband constitute the permanent staff and that when Mrs. Havenith is not in residence you are here alone,’ said Cromwell.

  ‘Not exactly. Three women, daily helps, are, in a way, on the permanent staff and come every day to clean the place. They live in the village. For the rest, we employ three or four maids from a registry when the mistress and guests are about the house.’

  ‘Do they supply the same maids every time?’

  ‘No. They can hardly hold them unemployed in reserve until we need them. Sometimes we get a girl who has been here before, but we can’t depend on it.’

  If Mrs. Morgan had herself been mistress of the house she could not have been more authoritative. She spoke as if she owned the place. Her husband stood mutely by with Cairncross. The pair of them were evidently content to allow Mrs. Morgan to do the talking.

  ‘How long was Mrs. Havenith. recently in residence?’

  ‘Almost a month. She had business in London and took the opportunity to hold a number of social gatherings here.’

  ‘And during that time were the same maids here?’

  ‘Yes. May I ask exactly why you are questioning me in this way? Surely you don’t think that the recent crime in Orchard Court had any connection with this establishment.’

  ‘I made that point before we came here.…’

  Cairncross seemed to be excusing himself. Mrs. Morgan ignored the interruption.

  ‘We have our reasons, Mrs. Morgan,’ said Cromwell. ‘Could you give me the names of the maids you engaged … names and addresses if you don’t mind?’

  Mrs. Morgan looked extremely nettled. Her lips tightened and she seemed ready to refuse. Then she apparently thought better of it.

  ‘I have them in my desk. Please excuse me.’

  She strode from the room without another word.

  Morgan took the opportunity to express his feelings about the inquiry.

  ‘A police inquiry here, sir, with the mistress absent is a little embarrassing. How will we explain it to Mrs. Havenith? She will be very upset, I’m sure.’

  Cromwell answered him with emphatic patience.

  ‘There is nothing exceptional in this. We only wish to know, in view of the murder of the man next door, if anybody saw anything unusual recently happening.’

  Morgan dried up as his wife entered, carrying in her hand a small notebook. He lamely tried to pacify his wife.

  ‘The Superintendent is making these inquiries purely to find out if anyone in The Limes saw something unusual lately, in view of the crime committed next door, Beulah.’

  She gave him a disgusted look.

  ‘I was well aware of that. Here are the names and addresses. Two of the maids live locally, I know; the others at a distance. You had better consult the agency if you need their addresses. Morgan apparently forgot to obtain them. It is immaterial. The agency will have them.’

  Morgan, who had received the implied rebuke like a blow in the face, looked very relieved.

  ‘Who are the agents, please?’

  ‘The Binder Domestic Agency, 43a Well Lane, Bond Street, London. Mr. Binder himself attends to our requirements. Will that be all?’

  ‘We would now like to see the rooms from which the flat in question is visible.’

  ‘Very well.…’

  She turned to Morgan and Cairncross.

  ‘There is no sense in all of us going. Will you two please remain here until we return?’

  Cairncross and Morgan looked at each other and Cairncross shrugged his shoulders. Morgan apparently didn’t even dare do that.

  ‘You’ll find us somewhere about the place,’ said Cairncross, as a parting gesture of independence.

  Mrs. Morgan led the way up the broad staircase, lined with the striking portraits of anonymous gentility, bought at auction sales. Having disposed of the two men whom she seemed to regard as underlings she grew more genial.

  ‘All the rooms on the front of the house have a view across to the Orchard Court flats. I can assure you that the occupants of those rooms saw nothing sinister going on last night.’

  ‘Did you, at any time, see or hear if the occupant of the end flat on the second floor seemed to be keeping this place under observation?’

  Mrs. Morgan halted in her stride.

  ‘Certainly not Why should anyone do that? I can imagine them taking a casual look through the window at us, but to conduct a persistent observation sounds very unpleasant.…’

  ‘You must be aware, Mrs. Morgan, that this would be a good place to rob.’

  ‘That is obvious. Mrs. Havenith is well known as a collector of very valuable jewellery and does not seem to mind the press or periodicals making the fact known. Who am I to interfere in the matter? But to attempt to steal her valuables … that is another matter. This house is as safe as a bank. Burglar alarms absolutely up-to-date, a very modern safe, Cairncross continually on the prowl and maintaining a routine check on all that goes on. A burglar would have a very warm reception. Here we are. This is the mistress’s suite.’

  She led them in. The suite consisted of a bedroom, a bathroom, and a boudoir. All of them sumptuous. The bedroom was furnished in light Adam style, with a thick Aubusson carpet, but the whole was spoiled by a huge bed, said to have been occupied by royalty, and hence insisted upon by Mrs. Havenith. The boudoir was dominated by a large dressing-table littered with cosmetics, and held many sma
ll tables and chairs, as though the tenant could entertain friends and provide refreshments at the same time. The whole was in pink. The bathroom came as a shock after the classical efforts of the other two; it was in white marble, with a huge sunken bath and the most modern plumbing.

  Littlejohn and Cromwell were interested most in the windows and the views they gave of the adjacent flats. The bedroom window was large, wide, and heavily curtained. Obviously Charles Blunt had had an almost full view of the room, including the well-lighted interior, when the curtains were not drawn. The same applied to the boudoir, the window of which was smaller, yet admitted an almost full sight of the dressing-table on which, normally, Mrs. Havenith’s jewellery must often have lain.

  The police were in no position to search the house. All they needed for the time being was to obtain a preliminary glance of the arrangement of rooms and furniture.

  There were two more suites on the corridor, one of which was occupied by Mr. Havenith when he visited the place. There was no connecting door between the suites. The other one, according to Mrs. Morgan, was that of Mr. Leo Havenith when he was in residence. The detectives made a cursory tour of all the rooms. The suites, other than Mrs. Havenith’s, were not so favourably placed for inspection from the Orchard Court flats, to which they stood at an angle which cut off half the view.

  Throughout Mrs. Morgan watched the operation silently, tight-lipped, disapproving, as though they were violating some sacred retreat.

  ‘You will, of course, tell Mrs. Havenith that we’ve been here and let her know the reason for our visit.…’

  ‘I certainly will. I don’t know what she will say. She is a sensitive lady and will not like the idea of her rooms being visited by strangers.’

  ‘I will call to see her as soon as she returns,’ said Littlejohn.

  They all descended to the ground floor, where Cairncross and Morgan were still waiting for them, in spite of Cairncross’s truculence when they left them.

  ‘And now for the burglar alarms; then we’ll leave you in peace,’ said Cromwell.

  Mrs. Morgan seemed relieved.

  ‘That is Mr. Cairncross’s department,’ she said. ‘If you’ve finished with my husband and me we’ll leave you. We have work to do.’

  Morgan made a gesture of shaking hands, but his wife hauled him off before he could complete the ceremony.

  ‘A queer couple,’ said Cairncross, treacherously, as the Morgans disappeared, the husband following her meekly without a look behind.

  ‘Why queer?’ asked Cromwell.

  Cairncross chuckled malevolently as though he owed them a grudge.

  ‘She’s the brains of the outfit. Poor Morgan does as he’s told. He seems to enjoy it. It stimulates him and he thinks the world of her. As for her; she keeps her love for Mrs. Havenith. Adores her. I’m sure she’d kill anybody who harmed her.…’

  ‘What about the burglar alarms?’ interjected Cromwell.

  ‘This way.…’

  Cairncross led them to a door under the stairs, which he opened with a key on his key-ring. He switched on the light and revealed an object like a gas stove, except that it was bristling with electrical points and wires.

  ‘Nobody’s admitted here except me. Not even the Haveniths,’ said Cairncross proudly. ‘And, of course, the mechanics of the firm who supplied it.’

  He pointed out the ramifications and various virtues of the outfit.

  ‘Every window and outside door is wired. As soon as anybody sets off the alarm the police station terminal functions. Before the intruder’s got properly inside the house the police are here. I’m already on the spot when they arrive because I’m only round the corner, in my flat, you see. Added to that, bells and electric lights go on outside, in the hall and in the corridors. There are also one or two other things happen which I alone know.…’

  Cairncross smote his chest as though the tricks were safely locked up there.

  ‘I’d prefer you didn’t press me to divulge them. You never know who’s listening.’

  Cromwell said he wouldn’t for the world press Cairncross to betray his secrets.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. Was there anything more?’

  Cromwell almost asked Cairncross to show him how the contraption worked, but it wasn’t worth the hullabaloo the security man had described.

  ‘Finally,’ said Cairncross, thumbing over his key-ring and eventually producing a key of curious shape.

  ‘See that? There’s only me has that key.…’

  He pointed to an object like a Yale lock set in the wall of the cubby-hole.

  ‘That’s the control key. It turns the whole system on or off. Without this key, once the alarm’s set going it keeps on and on till I turn it off.’

  ‘Suppose you sleep through it all?’

  ‘Sleep? Me? I’m one of those who sleep with one eye open. In any case the bell in my bedroom would wake the dead. No, they’ll not catch old Cairncross napping.…’

  They felt they’d had quite enough for one afternoon and bade Cairncross good day. As they left he asked them to remember that he was at their disposal at any time of the day or night.

  On the way back Cromwell and Littlejohn called at Afton Lodge, Camberwell, to see Alfred Blunt at the old folks’ home. He was enjoying afternoon tea with a number of other inmates who had rallied round him to make him forget his misfortunes. He seemed glad to see his visitors and Littlejohn introduced him to Cromwell.

  ‘Any news yet, sir?’

  ‘Not yet, Mr. Blunt. But we’re doing our best.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, sir. I’ve been hoping you’d call. We won’t need to go to Tamworth with Charles. To cut a long story short, he left me a private envelope which I promised not to divulge or open unless something happened to him. I didn’t mention it when last you were here. To tell the truth, I’d forgotten in the shock. Well, I opened it after you’d gone. Charles wants to be cremated at Golders Green and his ashes put in his mother’s grave at Tamworth. There were also in the envelope his passport and a savings book in my name with £5,000 in it. He didn’t forget me, you see. Always a good son. Though what I’ll do with all that money I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll give it to this home. They’ve been good to me and I don’t need much in the time I’ve got left.’

  ‘I’m very glad Charles has looked after you so well, Mr. Blunt. Did he ever tell you he had a banking account somewhere? He seems to have been pretty well off. He would surely not carry his cash about in his pocket.’

  ‘He never mentioned it. And I’d be the last to ask him. It would have looked as if I was interfering in his private affairs.’

  ‘Did he ever tell you the name of his employers, the whisky agents?’

  ‘If he ever did mention it, I’ve forgotten who it was. I’m sorry, Mr. Littlejohn; I’m not being much help. But my memory isn’t what it was. I’ll be forgetting my own name next.…’

  The old man seemed to be growing confused in his mind and Littlejohn decided that he had better not press for more information. It would have been useful to learn how Gentleman Charles had conducted his financial affairs. However.…

  ‘And that was all you found in the envelope, Mr. Blunt? The passport, the savings bank passbook, and was there a letter about his cremation?’

  ‘That’s all. It wasn’t really a letter. Just a paper with his wishes on it in the event of his death. I have it in my room. I’ll get it.…’

  He went off without more ado, returning with a large square envelope, and he passed it over to Littlejohn, who shook out the contents on his knee.

  It was as Alfred Blunt had stated; just the two booklets and a piece of plain notepaper bearing Charles’s last wish and his signature on it. Littlejohn thrust his hand in the envelope and pulled out a small piece of plain cardboard.

  ‘I’d forgotten that,’ said the old man. ‘I don’t know what it’s about. Perhaps it was the number of his car.’

  The card bore a solitary number, nothing more. QZ53647.
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br />   ‘Did he own a car?’

  ‘Not that I know of. He always came to see me in a taxi. I don’t think he had a car. It must be some number he didn’t want to forget, so he made a note of it.’

  ‘May I keep all these, Mr. Blunt? I’ll see you get them back.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘Thank you very much. We’ll let you get on with your tea now, sir. I’ll call to see you again very soon. If you wish I’ll take you to Golder’s Green and after that to Tam-worth if you want to see the ashes buried.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr. Littlejohn. You’ll get in touch with me, then?’

  They took him back to his friends, who were eagerly waiting for news of what the visit was about.

  ‘What do you think of the number, Bob?’ asked Littlejohn when they were on their way again.

  ‘Could it be a private account number with a continental bank?’

  ‘I was thinking the same myself.…’

  Littlejohn took out the passport.

  ‘It looks as if Charles Blunt made his father the custodian of his private affairs. Nobody would have thought of looking there. He and the old man seem to have trusted each other implicitly, as well they might.’

  The passport was a well-used one with a bad photograph of Charles and several pages of foreign entrance stamps, all of them either Paris, Amsterdam or Geneva.

  ‘We’ll contact Interpol and find out if they’ve any idea what the number is about and if, from the set-up of the letters and number, they recognise the bank.’

  He opened the bank book.

  ‘The total payment in is made up of £100 a time which seems to indicate cash transactions. That won’t be much help to us. However, we can ask the savings bank if they remember Charles and can give us any details of his dealings with them.’

  ‘What about calling on Mr. Binder and his domestic agency while we’re about it?’

  ‘Why not? We may as well clear up the loose ends as soon as possible.’

  Well Lane was an old block of offices, shortly due for demolition. Binder’s premises were on the ground floor and resembled those of an old-fashioned solicitor, leather upholstered, well-polished, the kind that might have impressed a conscientious butler of a type now long gone. There was a small ante-room, marked Knock and Enter, which they did.