Death of a Frightened Editor

by E.

  Starmer asked the obvious question for a banker. “What did you make out of it?”

  A second series of bangs, as loud as the earlier ones, drowned Mackie’s answer, if he had had time to give one.

  “Really, it’s too bad,” Mrs. Harrison was angry. “I shall complain to the company.” Crispin got up.

  “I’ll go and stop it,” he promised and opened the door into the corridor. A steward stood banging on the lavatory door.

  “What the blazes are you doing, Steward? They’re playing pop in there about the noise. Shut up for heaven’s sake.”

  “Sorry, sir. But it isn’t us. It’s in the lavatory. When the first bangs came my mate knocked on the door and asked if the person inside was all right. We couldn’t get an answer, and then there came more bangs.”

  “Better open the door, I should think. You’ve got a key, haven’t you?”

  “I tried that, sir. But the door seems to be jammed, and I can’t get it open.”

  “Then you’d better get the guard,” Crispin advised. He returned to the Pullman with the news. “Probably fainted in the place and fallen against the door,” he said.

  “Don’t they know who it is?”

  “Apparently not . . .”

  It was at this moment that Mrs. Harrison, a frown on her face, looked along the length of the car, and noticed the empty chair.

  “Where’s Mr. Mortensen?” she asked.

  3

  The seven stared at each other impassively for a few seconds until lingering anxiety found voice.

  “He couldn’t be the person in the lavatory, could he?” Phillips asked.

  They got to their feet and, jostling each other, crowded the corridor. The lavatory door was slightly ajar now, and the guard and a steward were pushing on it, getting leverage by pressing their feet against the side of the coach. But the door still stood firm. Sam Mackie elbowed to the front. “Let me have a go,” he said. His sixteen stone bulk went into a shoulder charge. It shook the door, but didn’t move it though it quivered with the shock.

  “Have to smash the door, gentlemen, I reckon,” the guard said, and taking an axe from the glass-fronted emergency cupboard, hacked a hole through one of the panels. A steward gingerly inserted his head through the narrow, splintered opening and craned downwards. His voice came, muffled and muted, to the waiting passengers behind:

  “It’s Mr. Mortensen.”

  “Good God,” muttered Betterton. “What the deuce has happened to him? You’d better hack the other panel out, guard, and we’ll try and lift him until we can push the door open.”

  The attempt failed; it was found impossible to move Mortensen.

  “Better to hack the door off.” The guard scowled. “There’ll be a row about it,” he said.

  “Can’t you take off the hinges?” It was the practical voice of a woman—Mrs. Harrison.

  “No, mum.” The guard snorted. “Hinges are screwed on the inside of the jamb.” He set to work with the axe. The door was chopped and rent until it fell outwards and was lifted and carried into the vestibule, where it was propped against the kitchen. Then it was seen that Mortensen was lying half off and half on the floor, arched. His head and shoulders had been jammed against the door and his feet against the side of the compartment alongside the washing bowl. An odd circumstance was that the body did not relax after the removal of the door, and allow the head to slide forward into the corridor: it remained arched and appeared quite stiff.

  Betterton, who had been the last to leave the coach, now pushed forward in his capacity as a doctor. He stared down at Mortensen. A queer look, it seemed of astonishment, passed over his face, but went almost as soon as it appeared. It was almost as though a shadow of something in front of him had passed across a screen.

  “Looks like tetanus,” he said, quietly, and knelt down. He pushed a hand inside Mortensen’s waistcoat, feeling the heart. With some difficulty he turned the man’s head and opening an eyelid peered into the pupil. Then he stood up and turned to the guard.

  “I don’t like his appearance at all,” he said. “But I can’t examine him here. Where can we carry him?”

  “Leave him where he is.”

  The guard turned, inquiringly and belligerently. It was Crispin who had spoken.

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “I should say he’s dead”—Crispin’s eyes sought those of Betterton, and received a slight nod. “I know more than a bit about police procedure in the case of sudden death. And this is obviously a police matter.”

  Betterton stood up. “I’d like another medical man to see him, if possible.” He spoke to the guard. “Can you find out if there is one travelling.”

  Steward Reeves cocked up his ears. “There’s a Doctor Manson in the next first-class coach,” he said. “He often travels on a Friday. I don’t know him as a doctor—”

  “Manson?” A grimace passed over Crispin’s face, “Indeed. The very man we want.” Sarcasm tinged his voice.

  “Why? Who’s Manson?” Phillips asked.

  “Scotland Yard superintendent. Their Laboratory chief and pathologist.” Crispin turned on the steward. “Well, get along, man, and fetch him. Don’t stand staring there.”

  It was not so easy as that. Passengers, sensing that something was afoot, had poured into the train corridor and were peering on tip-toe, in the direction of the Pullman entrance. It took Reeves and Doctor Manson two or three minutes to force a passage back to the car. Manson, standing by the lavatory entrance glanced sharply at the dozen people gathered in a group, and then turned to the body. He stood stock-still for a moment or two, letting his eyes roam over the remains of Mortensen: from the feet to the head, still stiff on its neck. When his gaze shifted it was in a scrutiny of the compartment itself; taking in the shape and size and the fittings. It rested for a moment on a drinking tumbler still in its holder ring, and a water bottle. The latter was full of water.

  Then, he turned to the steward. “Get these people to return to their seats,” he said. “And see they stay there. Then come back.”

  The tall, thin figure bent over Mortensen. The kindly eyes turned slowly in their trained scrutiny. His examination lasted only a few seconds. “Is the guard here?” he asked. The man stepped forward.

  “Have this train stopped at Hayward’s Heath.”

  “Can’t do that, sir, without orders from the company.”

  The Doctor showed his warrant card. “I want this train held at Hayward’s Heath until I have made two telephone calls,” he said, curtly. “See that it is done.”

  Muttering to himself, the guard proceeded along the corridor in the direction of the driver’s cabin. Manson turned to Reeves.

  “Now tell me what you know, Steward.”

  * * *

  The seven passengers so abruptly ordered away strode silently into the Pullman, and sat once more in their accustomed seats. Mackie rang his service bell. “I reckon we can all do with a brandy and soda,” he said when the steward appeared. “How about it?” Six nods accepted the invitation.

  “Right. Seven brandies, Steward . . . Here’s health,” he toasted when the drinks had been served, and gulped his down in one. The seven broke into general conversation.

  It was an odd psychological fact that nobody as much as mentioned the dead man; there might have been a conspiracy of silence on the subject. If there was, then it was purely a psychological one. No voice had been raised in a suggestion that it should be barred. Starmer, the banker, had set the pattern of talk.

  “Sam, you did not say how much you made out of the goat racket?” he pointed out.

  “How much? We cleared £20,000 net. And we’d have doubled the figure if the war had lasted another few months.” He sounded regretful.

  The train braked to a halt. Edgar wiped a pane clear of mist and peered out. “Hayward’s Heath,” he said. “Why the blazes are we stopping here?”

  Crispin, his journalistic curiosity active, left the compartment and walked into the vestibul
e. His way was barred by the head steward. “Nobody is allowed to leave the compartment,” he said.

  “What’s the idea?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Those are the superintendent’s orders. You’d best get back to your table, Mr. Crispin.”

  The journalist shrugged and re-entered the Pullman. “Dunno,” he said in reply to inquiries on the stop. He made no mention of the ban. The train re-started and Starmer turned again to Mackie. “Do you reckon places still serve goat as chicken, Sam?”

  “I reckon it’s two to one on, cock. Especially in Eye-Italian restaurants.”

  “In future I shall order leg or wing of chicken.” Mrs. Harrison grinned. “Even Sam here couldn’t disguise that.” A ripple of laughter greeted the remark. But the laughter was forced, and the atmosphere strained. Somehow Sam’s story wasn’t funny any longer.

  Doctor Manson entered. He had been standing out of sight for a moment or two listening to the banter. He seemed a surprised and certainly puzzled superintendent. The talk ceased as he came in. He acknowledged the silence. “I’m sorry to break in on your discussions,” he said. “There are possibly things you can tell me. You were fellow passengers of Mr. Mortensen. May I have your names and addresses, please?”

  He wrote them in his notebook as they were given. At Betterton’s name he looked up. “The surgeon?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You examined the man after the door had been removed?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know how he died?”

  “Yes, Superintendent. I know.”

  “How did he die, sir?” Mrs. Harrison asked. The Doctor looked at Betterton.

  “I haven’t said anything, Doctor Manson, apart from a remark when I first saw him that I thought it looked like tetanus.”

  “There is no reason why you should not know, madam”—Manson turned to Mrs. Harrison. “Mr. Mortensen was poisoned. With Strychnine. Tetanus was an understandable first thought,” he added. “The symptoms have a similarity.”

  “Poisoned!” Six voices made the ejaculation a chorus, and six faces, startled, looked at the superintendent.

  “It surprises you?” he asked; and without waiting for a reply he lowered his voice and addressed Betterton.

  “Was he dead when you first saw him?”

  The surgeon nodded.

  “No sign of convulsions?”

  “No. Nor even of contraction. Doctor Manson.”

  The scientist’s eyes went to the top of the car. “I take it that was his seat.” He walked up and stood by the table eyeing it. The cloth held an ashtray, within it a number of cigarette stubs, and a quantity of ash, a plate with a knife lying across it and a cup and saucer. All were on the opposite side of the table to Mortensen’s seat. In the centre of the table was a small bottle of Bismuth tablets. Doctor Manson motioned at it. “Whose is this?” he asked.

  “Mortensen’s.”

  Manson’s eyebrows rose. He picked it up by the cap. It was half-full of tablets. Borrowing a paper napkin from the steward he wrapped it round the bottle and pocketed it. He glanced at the now sole occupant of the table. “Let me see, Edgar, isn’t it. You were sitting opposite Mr. Mortensen during the journey?”

  “Yes, Superintendent.”

  “Did he appear to be in any way out of sorts—ill, or something like that?”

  “No. He was very much as usual. In fact in better spirits if anything.”

  “As usual?” Manson started in surprise. “Did you know him, then?”

  “Yes, I knew him.”

  “We all knew him, Doctor.” Mrs. Harrison waved a hand in the air.

  “All of you? Are you then members of a party? I had not realised that.”

  “Perhaps I’d better explain, Doctor.” Crispin described the circumstances of the nightly trip to Brighton in the car. “We liked to travel together. One can’t reserve seats, as you probably know. So the first to arrive usually distributed coats, hats or papers on the other chairs to hold them. That way we have managed to keep together.”

  “For how long?”

  “Oh . . . I suppose six or seven months.”

  “That makes things a little easier for me. You will probably know whether Mr. Mortensen was much addicted to Bismuth?”

  “It would have been unusual had the bottle not been on the table,” Mrs. Harrison said. “I am sure we would have ragged him about it.”

  “Another train custom?”

  “Mortensen always put it in front of him when he began his meal to remind him to take a couple of tablets shortly after he had finished it,” Crispin said. “You see he was not so much a human being as a civil war—”

  “I see.” Manson smiled slightly. “Acts of violence, strikes, the forces of law and order doing their best, rushings to and fro, the rumble of tumbrils. I, too, know my Mr. Polly.”

  “Quite so. By the way, Doctor, the wrapping up wasn’t necessary. It’s no good for fingerprints. We nearly all take a tablet. It was a free-for-all bottle and a joke amongst us. I know that at least four of us handled the bottle this evening.”

  “Why should you think of finger-prints, Mr. Crispin?”

  “Come, Doctor. I’m a crime reporter. A man has taken poison. And there is a bottle of tablets on his table.”

  “A man has taken poison. Why should I worry about his fingerprints on a bottle? Did Mr. Mortensen have a tablet tonight?” He looked round for an answer. Phillips spoke after a momentary silence:

  “I don’t know. It seems to me that if Mortensen meant to commit suicide tonight, he wouldn’t have worried whether he was going to have indigestion or not.”

  “Or whether he put out the free-for-all bottle or not,” Manson retorted. “It is a point I am bearing in mind.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Mrs. Harrison said. “It’s better to die comfortably.”

  “Strychnine is not comfortable, madam. Did Mr. Mortensen go without his meal, also, knowing that he was going to commit suicide?” There was sarcasm in Manson’s voice.

  Nobody answered the question immediately. Then Betterton said, quietly, “I expect he had a meal. But we wouldn’t know. You see he was always first in the coach. He was his own master and left his office when he chose. He closed the place early. Nobody could see him after four o’clock.”

  “He DID have a tablet,” Edgar said suddenly. “I remember now.”

  “When?”

  “About a minute after I sat down. His place had been cleared after his meal, and he had put out the bottle.”

  “At what stage of the journey was that?”

  “Before the start. About five minutes to five.”

  “Five minutes to five!” Manson said in surprise. “Twenty five minutes before the train was due to start? And he had finished a meal?”

  “That is so. He liked to eat while the train was standing.”

  The train was braking to a halt at the entrance to Brighton station. Doctor Manson moved to the doorway. “That will be all for the moment,” he said. “But will you please arrange to be at the police station at ten o’clock tomorrow morning—without fail.”

  4

  Detective-Inspector Edgecumbe boarded the Pullman as the express came to a stop in Brighton. He had to bend his head from its six feet two inches height in order to do so. His eyes uncannily singled out Doctor Manson and he stepped forward.

  “You’ll be him,” he said. “Glad you telephoned. Where is he?” Edgecumbe had a reputation for brusqueness.

  Manson indicated the lavatory. Edgecumbe peeped through the shattered door panels, and said “Ah! Strychnine, you say. I’m having the car shunted into a covered dock. You’ll take charge.”

  “The Yard?” Manson, equally laconic, queried.

  “Yes.” A grin crossed Edgecumbe’s face. “Reminds me—message from them. Your assistant Merry, and Inspector Kenway are on their way by road.” He looked at his watch. “Should be here in about an hour. Like to give me the gen while they shunt the car?”

&
nbsp; “I would. By the way, you’d better look over the other passengers from the car. I’m having them round tomorrow morning.” Edgecumbe eyed them over.

  “Right,” he said. “You can go home now . . . Know most of ’em by name and sight”—this to Manson. “Booked you rooms at the Royal Hotel. That all right?”

  “Excellent, thanks. Now listen . . .”

  Three-quarters-of-an-hour later five men threaded a way between the rails of the marshalling yard to the dock where stood the Pullman, locked and with drawn blinds. A constable saluted them. Doctor Manson and Edgecumbe had been reinforced by Detective-Inspector James Merry, the Yard’s Deputy Scientist and close friend of Doctor Manson, and Detective-Inspector Kenway. Sergeant Barratt, who had driven them from London, followed behind carrying the Murder Bag. They went in single file. “Follow me,” Edgecumbe had said and himself followed the beam of his strong torch. “Have to watch the live rails,” he explained.

  Inside the coach, the roped-up wreckage of the shuttered door was unroped, and the body of Mortensen exposed. The agony of his death was apparent. His collar had been torn from the front stud, and his tie pulled so tightly into a knot that it was impossible to unfasten it, so great had been the man’s pull on it to free his neck. The shirt neck, too, was torn into ribbons.

  “That’s all I want to see, now,” Manson said. “Better get the body out. NO”—as Edgecumbe made to step over the figure and into the lavatory, in order to get at the legs and lift them—“draw him out. I don’t want the lavatory disturbed.” It was a task of some difficulty.

  With the lavatory clear Doctor Manson prowled round the tiny compartment, scrutinising it thoroughly. He picked up a tablet of soap from the tray of the soap-bowl. It was quite dry, and unused. A paper towel—a recent innovation in the Pullman—was projecting from the automatic supplier. There were no soiled towels in the ‘used’ basket. The Rubberoid floor was clean and unsullied save for two parallel lines of sliding marks about two inches apart. Doctor Manson stepped into the third-class compartment, where the body of Mortensen had been laid, and lifted one of the feet of the dead man; the heel of the shoe was rubber-covered.