Death of a Frightened Editor

by E.

  Returning, he scrutinised the floor of the lavatory more carefully. Near the outer wall was a small piece of screwed-up paper. He retrieved it and holding it by one pair of tweezers, gently teased it open with a second pair which he had taken from a waistcoat pocket. Inspector Edgecumbe watched him closely. The mise en scène might have been enacted behind the old Holborn Empire where street hawkers sell conjuring tricks after demonstrating their working to an audience.

  Opened, the paper revealed itself to be a small square piece of the kind chemists use for wrapping up their bottles and boxes. It was white and glossy. Flattened out it showed plainly the outline of some object it had held—an oblong-shaped tablet, or perhaps two tablets.

  Inspector Edgecumbe leaned over the scientist’s hand. “Looks as if what he took was in there?” he suggested. Manson made no reply but called for an envelope from the Murder Bag, and placed the paper inside, sealing and signing the envelope.

  “That will do, I think,” he said. “May as well browse through the Pullman now, though I’m afraid we won’t get much help from it.” He turned round. “Kenway, you’d better empty Mortensen’s pockets of their belongings. Put them all in a bag and don’t handle them more than you can help.” The inspector nodded. He put on a pair of chamois-leather gloves.

  A few minutes sufficed for Manson’s examination of the car. He peered round the shelves of the kitchen and sorted out the contents of the waste bin. Edgecumbe watched him, curiosity in his face; but he said nothing. The tables of the first-class compartment were as they had been when Mortensen was missed, except for the glasses in which the seven had been served with brandies. Merry looked at his chief and received a nod. He collected the glasses, wrapped them in tissue paper separately and placed them in a cardboard carton taken from the kitchen. Doctor Manson put on his coat.

  “The company can have the coach back,” he announced. “It can’t tell us any more. What about the body?”

  “I’ve a stretcher party outside,” Edgecumbe replied. “And an ambulance in the station yard. The Divisional surgeon can have it.”

  The coast road from Brighton going southeast climbs steadily into the sky to Black Rock. The name strikes the average visitor as a misnomer, for, confronted with great cliffs of white chalk he is apt to scratch his head in puzzlement at the name Black Rock. He is in good and ancient company.

  For decades argument has raged over the ‘black’. Pay no heed to those who assert that it owes its cognomen to the fact that so many people have made the long climb to throw themselves over the edge to the jagged rocks below, in an attempt to find a better world.

  The ‘black’ may have come from the Norse ‘blakka,’ which meant white! Or from the Old English ‘blaec.’ Or, more likely, it is a corruption of the Celtic ‘blaighe’ which meant, simply, a hill. For a hill it certainly is; a rock it certainly is not.

  However, we can leave the argument; all of Black Rock with which this story is concerned is the terrace of Regency houses which, after following the coast road upwards, ends abruptly at the Rock. Thirty or more years ago they were the last homes in Brighton in that direction, if we except the homes of hundreds of daws cuddled in holes of the great white cliff. Grass, common land or arable land in those days wended a green and sepia way from Black Rock with an un-metalled road, until the Saxon village of Rottingdean (rotting—Anglo-Saxon for roaring wind) was reached. At the foot of the cliffs the sea hammered.

  Today a great block of flats stands just past Black Rock. Further along, elegant houses, costing at today’s prices from £8,000 to £10,000 roll their gardens down to the great road on the high cliffs parallel to the sea. But the Regency houses still stand, though their glory as private residences has gone with the times. Taxation, the cost of upkeep coupled with the impossibility of affording or even obtaining domestic help, have led to their descent into boarding houses, or conversion into flats, or even single-roomed apartments.

  Sic transit gloria mundi!

  It was to one of these flats that Inspector Edgecumbe led Doctor Manson, Merry and Inspector Kenway. Mortensen had housed himself on the first floor of one of three houses which had been joined together in a nest of luxury apartments, with service. The ground floor was a restaurant and a writing room cum lounge. A condition of the tenancies was that the flat dwellers should spend a minimum amount on meals in the restaurant per week.

  The officers’ ring at the bell of Mortensen’s flat was answered by the opening of the door on the chain.

  “Who’re you?” a woman’s voice demanded. Her face appeared in the opening. “Oh, the perlice,” she said after identities had been announced. “You’ve been a nice time coming, I must say. Been here hours, I have.” She guided them along a corridor and into the flat lounge.

  The company looked round it with not a little surprise.

  It was impregnated with luxury. A mushroom-coloured fitted pile carpet covered the floor, and was continued through the bedroom and along the passages. Mushroom-coloured chairs and a settee matched the carpet. At one end of the room stood a cocktail cabinet in maple wood, and a writing desk of the same wood was placed so that light from the window fell across it on the left side.

  Cushions of royal blue on the chairs and settee were matched by curtains of the same colour. A card table and a low coffee table matched the cocktail cabinet and the writing desk. Concealed lighting served to show to advantage three or four pictures by lesser Masters, but nevertheless of considerable value.

  Inspector Kenway whistled softly. “This newspaper racket seems to be a paying game,” he said.

  Doctor Manson nodded. He moved to the bedroom, which was furnished in a similar colour scheme. A wardrobe held a dozen or more suits; the tags of them bore the name of a famous West End tailor.

  The woman stood by the lounge door watching the browsing of the officers. Her face was without expression, except for the eyes which glowed in a dull kind of way; they seemed to be the only part of her alive. Nor was there any change in her demeanour when Doctor Manson, his wanderings through the flat over, motioned her to a chair and prepared to learn something more about her late employer.

  Her name, she said, was Eliza Goodenough; her presence in the flat she explained by stating that she did for Mr. Mortensen in the morning, and came back each evening to serve his dinner.

  “But,” said Doctor Manson, “I thought he had his meal on the train?”

  “That!” The woman snorted. “That were his tea, mister. He had that about half past four, didn’t he? He had his dinner after he got here, about seven o’clock.”

  “But why you? These are service flats, are they not? And there is a restaurant. Surely that means service in the flat?”

  “True enough, mister. But Mr. Mortensen had me come in. He wouldn’t have any of the servants of the flats in the place. Most important about that, he was. Wouldn’t have an electrician, or a plumber or anybody in here unless I was here as well. I always served his dinner as was sent up in the service lift. All except weekends.”

  “Did Mr. Mortensen give any reason for not having the flats’ servants in his place?”

  “Only as he didn’t want servants prying about, sir.”

  “But he didn’t seem to mind you being here alone, and having the keys?”

  “He knew me, sir. He knew as he could trust me,” the woman rejoined. Manson looked curiously at her. There was a hint of bitterness in her voice, but her expression or lack of it, remain unchanged; it was as dead-pan as when she had first opened the door to the police.

  “You know how your employer died, do you?” Manson asked.

  “I know as he is dead. But that’s all the busy told me.”

  “Did you ever know any poison to be in the flat?”

  “Poison? Only a bit of mouse poison in a tin. He put it down once a month. We had mice,” she added unnecessarily.

  Mrs. Goodenough sniffed at the idea that her late employer had been in any way troubled. “He didn’t show as he had anything on his m
ind,” she said, “except how to spend his money fast enough on himself.”

  Investigation of his desk seemed to prove her point of view. A diary contained pencilled appointments for some weeks ahead, including a country house party, a round of social engagements, card parties, and a luncheon engagement or two.

  A small cupboard in the bathroom contained a number of bottles and boxes, but showed no trace of strychnine, though Doctor Manson on two occasions touched with the tip of his tongue the white contents of two of the boxes.

  It was Inspector Kenway who unearthed the second surprising thing about the flat. Rooting round, he had opened a cupboard in the corridor near the front door. It contained in the forefront brooms, brushes, and other cleaning materials. A switch was just inside the door. Kenway pressed it and the flooding of light into the interior of the cupboard led to an exclamation; and a call for Doctor Manson. “What’s the matter, Kenway?” he demanded, and stepped into the hall.

  He stared into the cupboard. At the back, stapled to the floor was a large and heavy safe, with a combination lock and wheel. It was or would have been quite invisible to any intruder without the light to show up the interior. The four officers regarded it for some moments without speaking. “A nice job we’ll have to open that, if he kept the combination in his head,” said Kenway.

  Doctor Manson made no rejoinder. He stood in the corridor staring at nothing, but with brows wrinkled in thought. Presently, still without speaking, he turned back into the lounge, walked across to a window, and pulled back the curtains.

  The window was guarded with long vertical iron bars. So was a second window.

  Manson walked down into the street, and from the drive-in to the flats examined the windows of the block. All were normal.

  “It gets curiouser and curiouser,” he said to Merry, on his return. “Had the man an obsession about burglary?”

  “Yes.” The answer came from Mrs. Goodenough. She nodded at the windows, and pointed to the two mortice locks on the front door. “He had ’em put in special,” she said. “Told the management that the flat was on the first floor over the balcony and that anybody could climb up the pillars and get in to his valuables. So they let him put up the bars, so long as he paid for it.”

  “What valuables had Mr. Mortensen?”

  “Dunno, mister. Everything’s here for the seeing, ’cept what he has in the safe. I ain’t never seen inside’a that.”

  “We’d better lock up this flat and seal it,” said Manson, taking the keys from Mrs. Goodenough. “We’ll have to go further into the curious state of affairs here. Meanwhile, I can do with something to eat. Let’s get to the hotel.”

  But dinner was over—it was now past nine o’clock. The manager, however, produced a pile of sandwiches and a supply of coffee. He also provided a private sitting-room in which the officers could talk without interference. By common consent the death of Mortensen was tabooed until the meal was finished. Inspector Edgecumbe, however, gave vent to a curiosity which had been with him since the telephone call from Hayward’s Heath.

  “Bit of a coincidence you being on that train so fortunately, Doctor—or wasn’t it?”

  Manson grinned. “Fishing, Inspector? Coincidence, yes. But there’s nothing in it. I have a cottage at Patcham and frequently come down for weekends when I am free. This happened to be a free weekend.”

  “A bit of luck for me!” The inspector piled his plate with the others on a tray, and carried the tray to the sideboard. He returned to the death of Mortensen. “Well, there doesn’t seem much to go on,” he suggested.

  “There is quite a bit to go on with,” Manson replied. He paused, and his scholarly face came to frowning. “If I could figure out what it amounts to. By the way, was there anything on Mortensen that could be helpful, Kenway?”

  The inspector picked up a bag and emptied its contents on the table. They were the articles taken from Mortensen’s pockets. Kenway ticked them off on a list as he sorted them out. They comprised a wallet with £48 in pound notes and a ten shilling note, business cards with a Covent Garden address and describing Mortensen as ‘Editor of Society’; private cards with the address of the Black Rock flat.

  The right hand trousers pocket had 18s. 6d. in small change and a handkerchief, and the left-hand one a pocket-knife. In the left-hand lower pocket of the waistcoat was a gold watch and in the top pocket on the same side a gold cigarette case, with half a dozen cigarettes. In the top right-hand pocket a first-class season ticket between Brighton and London and a gold fountain pen and propelling pencil, both clipped to the edge of the pocket. Inspector Kenway laid them out in separate clutches on the table, indicating the appropriate pockets.

  “In the inside jacket pocket along with the wallet, four letters,” he said, “Two of them from women—and this.” He produced a travel agency’s folder with inside two return flight tickets to Paris from Shoreham aerodrome, dated Saturday (that is, next day) returning on Tuesday, and a double room booking at the Moderne Palace Hotel.

  “Doesn’t look as though he was contemplating suicide, does it?” Kenway said.

  Inspector Edgecumbe glanced quickly at Doctor Manson. Kenway’s question had revived thoughts that had been in his mind since the Doctor’s Hayward Heath call. “Why did he stop the train and telephone both to me and Scotland Yard?” he had asked himself. A case of suicide was no concern of officers of Scotland Yard, particularly outside their own range of operations. It now seemed that he must have discounted suicide so soon as he saw the body. He gave voice to his suspicions.

  Doctor Manson regarded him for a moment through half-closed eyes. Then: “One does not commit suicide with strychnine, Edgecumbe,” he replied. “There are other and less painful means.” He looked over the articles on the table. “Seems a normal complement,” he said. “We’ll . . .”

  He stopped suddenly. The silence hit the officers like an electric shock. Inspector Merry shot a glance at his chief. Manson was staring hard at the table.

  “Something wrong, Harry?”

  Manson ignored the inquiry. He spoke to Kenway, sharply: “Are you sure this is all Mortensen had on him?”

  “Yes, Doctor. That’s the lot.”

  “Quite certain?”

  “Quite. I went through everything with Edgecumbe here. He made out the list as I called out the articles.”

  “That’s right,” Edgecumbe confirmed.

  “Did you go through his raincoat, for instance?”

  “Yes. There was nothing in the pockets.”

  Doctor Manson crossed to the telephone and dialled ‘0’. “Exchange,” he said. “This is a police priority call. Get me Scotland Yard.”

  The call through, he waited until the Chief Inspector on duty had been fetched.

  “Dawson,” he said, “I want a constable posted at the door of the offices of ‘Society’ in Covent Garden. And as quickly as possible. He is to hold anyone entering or leaving the building.”

  5

  “This is a very odd death.”

  Doctor Manson faced the seven passengers in the inspector’s room in Brighton police station. He towered over them with his six feet, though the slight stoop of his shoulders lessened that effect, and searched their faces with his eyes deep sunk and seemingly slumberous beneath the wide forehead. He had been at this time for some years in charge of the Crime Laboratory at Scotland Yard—the laboratory which he had founded in remarkable circumstances. And he was the chief of the Homicide Squad.

  “A very odd death,” he repeated after a slight pause. “It would be a help to us if we knew what Mr. Mortensen had been doing prior to leaving his seat, and at what time exactly he left that seat. We are seeing you together because I think that something like a general discussion may help in reminding you of any happening during the journey—incidents which may appear unimportant to you, but may be important to trained investigators. Shall we see what we can make of that?”

  The seven had complied with the request to attend at the police head-
quarters. They shuffled uncomfortably after the Doctor’s opening gambit. Mrs. Harrison answered after some hesitancy: “As a matter of fact, sir, we don’t really know when he left. Until Mr. Crispin came in with the news that someone was ill we had not missed Mr. Mortensen.”

  “That seems a little strange, madam. This is a confined space, and you were a friendly company. He had a companion opposite him . . .”

  “I think I can explain that, Doctor,” Betterton interrupted. “You see, Mackie was telling us a tale. We were all listening to him above the sound of the train, and were watching him. To do so, some of us had to lean forward. In the case of those at the top end of the coach chairs had to be slewed round. It would thus be quite easy for Mortensen to leave without us, who were watching Mackie, seeing him go.”

  “Was Mr. Mortensen listening to the story?”

  “Yes. We all were.”

  “How do you know Mr. Mortensen was listening?”

  “Because he had laughed once or twice. You couldn’t mistake his thin, and rather unpleasant, laugh.”

  “I gather he went out before the end of the story?”

  “Yes,” Phillips said. “He wasn’t here when it ended, because the disturbance in the lavatory interrupted the story; and we know now that Mortensen was the cause of the disturbance.”

  “I see.” Doctor Manson spoke to Edgar. “You were facing Mr. Mortensen. Now . . .”

  “I wasn’t during the anecdote,” Edgar said, hastily. “I was leaning sideways in my slewed-round chair so that I could see and hear Mr. Mackie. I have been trying to think back, and seem to have a recollection of feeling Mortensen move—a kick on the leg of my chair, but I cannot be certain.”

  “At what stage of the story do you think?”

  “I should guess about five minutes before the end.”

  An exclamation broke from Crispin.

  “Yes? . . .” Doctor Manson waited.

  “I think, perhaps, I can get a little nearer the time,” the crime reporter said. “When we passed Three Bridges Mortensen was in his seat.” He explained: “My little idiosyncrasy when travelling is to check on times. I have always done it. I looked at my watch as we passed through a station. It was a quarter to six. The station, therefore, was Three Bridges. I glanced at the Pullman clock to compare the time with my watch and Mortensen was in his seat. The clock was just over his head. He was leaning forward.”