by E.
Doctor Manson for some reason had sat straight up in his chair at the mention of the dresses, and was listening with marked interest to Jones’s description. He butted in.
“Silk dresses were they, Jones?”
“No. Not silk, Doctor. Don’t know what they were made from. She had some posh pig-skin dressing cases with Paris labels on ’em, and some fibre cases like we take on holiday.”
“Any initials on?”
“Yes. M.M. on the pigskins. She was a tart, of course, passing as Mary Mortensen, I reckon. No initials on the fibres. That’s all,” Jones concluded, “except for some photographs of herself. I nicked a couple in case we want ’em. Natural ones, not dolled up to the nines. I’ve put ’em in me room.” Jones sat back and wiped his brow with his revolting handkerchief. He did not usually talk at such lengths.
Manson was silent for a moment or two. He stared at the superintendent. Jones had the feeling that the gaze was going right through him, and out at the back. It was! At the moment it was roving round the flat the superintendent had described. It returned to Jones, and Manson relaxed.
“Now that was very interesting, Old Fat Man,” he said. “Very interesting indeed—and intriguing. I’ll have to give it quite a bit of thought. Meanwhile I’d like a bit of investigating at this end into the Pullman passengers. I’d like to know whether any of them has purchased strychnine in any shape or form in London. I suppose chemist’s shops in the vicinity of their offices would be best. Edgecumbe has drawn a blank in Brighton.” He looked at Kenway, who nodded acceptance of the task.
“All except Betterton I suppose, Doctor,” he said. “He could get all he wanted, couldn’t he, being a medical man.”
12
It was in a state of considerable mental jigsaw that Doctor Manson, alone in his study, settled down to review the facts gained so far in the investigation. They presented a problem of curious perplexity. For, while it seemed apparent that one, or maybe more, of the seven passengers in the Pullman were involved in what he was quite sure was a killing, the fact remained that with one exception the riddle of Mortensen’s life—and death—was concerned with people and circumstances which had no part or parcel with the seven.
The exception was the murderer who had obtained the keys from Mortensen while he was still lying in the Pullman, and had fled poste haste to London and searched the Covent Garden office—
For what?
The second searcher, Mary Ross, and the elusive Mr. Moore, Mortensen’s other self, who was known visually to the bank which Mortensen never visited lest the dual personality should be revealed—what part did they play in the drama?
Again, what connection with his death had the barred flat and Mortensen’s fears for what he described as his valuables but which Miss Ross, who should know, said was a fear of people?
Doctor Manson reviewed first the murderer himself—the mysterious ‘X’. How had he poisoned without administering any poison? The evidence was overwhelming that Mortensen had partaken of nothing within the prescribed time when symptoms of strychnine poisoning should show. The only thing available to him was a tablet from the bottle of Bismuth. Had the poison been contained in that?
Manson dismissed the idea. Not only had the time limit of fifteen minutes been passed by a margin, but the bottle was free for all; its contents were habitually shared by all the passengers at their whim. In consequence there would be no way of ensuring that only Mortensen would take the particular tablet that had been poisoned. Indeed, since it was a free-for-all bottle, there was the gravest danger that someone else might take the tablet. Further, had a strychnine tablet been placed in the bottle it was a scientific certainty that some evidence of its having been there would have been shown when the bottle and the remaining Bismuth tablets were treated with reagents—as they had been, with negative results.
No, after reviewing the circumstances from all angles the scientist gave up the riddle temporarily, and passed to the next. What had been the part of the second person who broke into Mortensen’s office. Was he concerned also in the elimination of Mortensen? Like the first one he had also searched the office, though less carefully and secretly.
Manson decided in the negative. Had he been associated with the other person in the murder, then the Pullman passenger with the keys could have provided him with the object or objects to obtain which he had broken into the building. The more likely circumstance was that number 2, reading of Mortensen’s death, had taken advantage of it to recover something which he wanted, and which Mortensen had. What could it be that was regarded as of such importance as to lead a man into the desperate resort of burglary?
This raised a lively point of interest in Manson’s mind. Were the ‘something’ the men’s own property surely it could have been obtained quite easily from Mortensen’s executors, whether it was held legally or otherwise. No desperate device was needed for that.
Pondering the problem Manson realised, suddenly, that there might be one very good reason for the burglary. It would be obvious to anyone who knew anything of police procedure in the case of violent death that there would be police search into the belongings of the dead man. This would involve a search of his business premises as well as his home; inquiries designed to reveal anything that could throw a light on his death, whether it be suicide or murder. Were the burglars in search of something which it was imperative the police should not see if they searched the office? Manson felt that this was a sound theory; it might also link up many loose ends concerning Mortensen himself and the dual nature of the mysterious exchequer represented by Mr. Moore’s contributions to Mortensen’s way of living.
It was at this point that Manson’s thoughts turned once more to the Pullman passengers. There had been during his questioning of them certain circumstances which had aroused in him an uneasiness of mind. Though they had collectively replied with candour when asked about Mortensen, each, when interviewed separately, seemed to exude an evasiveness. There had been nothing on which he could put a finger; it was rather a psychological reaction in his mind. His reflections on Mr. Moore brought it back to consciousness. Putting on his hat and coat he left the Yard to pay a series of calls.
Alfred Betterton received him in his consulting rooms in Harley Street. The surgeon stood back to the fire, in easy repose, his tall figure with high white collar and cravat, a pearl pin in the centre, sharply defined against the life-size picture in oils of his grandfather who had been physician and surgeon to Queen Victoria. He did not advance to meet his visitor—possibly he thought it would have been too much like coming forward to meet a client. Instead he waited for Manson to cross to him, and then extended a hand and drew a chair forward, waited for the scientist to settle himself and produced a silver cigarette box.
Betterton blew a couple of smoke rings before he showed any interest in the reason for the visit. Manson gained the impression that the man was under a strain, possibly of anxiety.
“Want more information, Doctor Manson,” he asked. “Or is this a visit to my profession? But, no. You look healthy enough,” he added with a smile.
“No. There is nothing wrong with me beyond the normal nervous reaction I always undergo when I am at a loss in investigation.”
“As shown by the tapping of your fingers on the arm of my chair, eh?”
Manson looked down at his hand, and stilled it. “Observation, eh?” he said. “Yes, that’s one sign, Betterton. But I thought you were a surgeon, not an authority on nervous disorders.”
“I am. But I qualified and practiced as a G.P. first, you know. And nervous disorders are at the root of most medical evils.”
“Hypnotism is the latest cure-all for that, is it not?” Manson smiling, was watching the face of his host.
“I’ve heard so,” Betterton said. “But I can’t say. I’ve never taken any interest in the subject. It would be to my mind, a remedy more dangerous than the evil.” He drew his cigarette into a glowing red. “You spoke of your nervous anxiety when you are
at a loss. Do I gather that is the position now? That you have nothing more about Mortensen’s death?”
Again Manson thought he sensed an intransigent anxiety in the surgeon.
“As to the identity of a possible assailant—very little. But a little progress on a possible motive.”
“Involving one of us?” The inquiry came in a quiet tone, with no change of timbre in the voice. Nevertheless, there seemed to Manson a wariness, a tenseness of waiting in the figure of the surgeon, who was now again standing with his back to the fire.
“No,” Manson replied, and frowned. “They would seem to be edging away from you. That is why I have come to see you. Is there any possibility that strychnine could have been administered before the train journey started. I keep saying to myself that it is impossible—and yet!”
Betterton studied an answer carefully. “It was strychnine?” he asked.
“Definitely.”
“And nothing else?”
“Nothing else at all. He was not drugging, if that is what you mean.”
“That was in my mind. If he had developed a definite familiarity with drugs of a similar nature. Then the action might possibly have been delayed. I have never known of such a case, but it might be a matter for medical argument. But without that there is no possible chance that it was taken other than on the train.”
“Then the fuse fizzles out.” Manson made a gesture of surrender. “By the way,” he asked, “do you know a Mr. Arthur Moore?”
Manson’s eyes were watching two flies climbing round his knees. They met, viciously snapped at each other with a sudden buzzing of wings, and began climbing all over again. Like a couple of petulant children Manson thought, almost unconsciously. Betterton’s answer came within three or four seconds, though it seemed longer in the waiting.
“Arthur Moore, Manson? No, I have no recollection of any such name. Why?”
Manson noted that there was complete candidness in his voice. After an unobtrusive scrutiny he was satisfied that the name brought no recollection.
“Oh, it’s just a name that cropped up as an acquaintance of Mortensen,” he said.
He picked up his hat and coat and, escorted to the door by Betterton, passed into the street, and to the offices of the Sesame Insurance Company. Mr. Edgar was affability itself. Manson put to him the same question.
“Moore? No, I don’t know the name,” he said.
To a question as to when was the last time he had seen Mortensen apart from the train journeys, Edgar showed some petulancy. “I never have seen him, Doctor Manson,” he said. “I have told you that already.”
Mrs. Harrison, visited, was exceedingly busy on elucidating the whys and wherefores of ‘fallen women’. The only Arthur Moore she had ever known, she said, was a double dyed scoundrel who had lived in her native village. But he had been dead about twelve years.
“Then he isn’t much use to me,” said Manson. “Although this one is dead, too.”
The remaining four of the septet were equally emphatic in knowing nothing about Arthur Moore, though all appeared to develop a lively interest in his existence.
“Another one!” Phillips said. And then stopped in embarrassment.
“Another what?”
Phillips coloured, and Manson looked him over curiously. There was nothing in the remark which should cause embarrassment.
“I was thinking aloud thoughts I should not have had,” said Phillips. “What I meant was another mystery personage whom the police apparently cannot trace. There have been several of them lately, you know. It was rude of me to make any reference to it.”
Back at the Yard Manson, reviewing the round of visits, reflected with a wry frown that he had learned nothing at all from them. An air of frustration gathered around him.
13
Inspector Merry did nothing to dispel the frustration when he entered. He had been examining the contents of the safe in the Brighton flat sent up by Inspector Edgecumbe. Manson looked up at his entrance. Merry shook his head.
“Nothing at all,” he said. “The safe was practically empty—a few unimportant papers, Insurance policies for a house he owned and seemed to rent out, a libel insurance policy—that would be for Society I should think—a little silver which he seemed to use for entertaining. I’d give him £50 for the Georgian teapot, sugar bowl and milk jug. Why he wanted the safe at all I can’t think.”
“No? There’s been something there, Jim.” Manson waggled a finger at nothing. “He must have had it put there for more than silver and papers. He took such special trouble to conceal the safe from any chance breaker-in.”
Merry nodded. “But the girl had tried to open it, Harry. Surely she would have known it held nothing but papers?”
“The girl!” Manson frowned. “I’d like to know more about her.” He recalled the vague, indefinite impression she had given him of, not exactly nervousness (which might have been natural during questioning by police officers who had not been expected) but—Suddenly a simile came to his mind. She was like a learner apeing the confidence of an experienced motorist in order to give herself confidence.
“There’s something odd about her,” he said aloud.
“What is there odd?” Merry queried. “They were living together, we know. But—”
“Why didn’t he marry her. He was obviously fond of the girl, and kept her in luxury. They met at a country house, which means that they were socially equal—in fact I should think she was his social superior. Mortensen was tolerated, I should think, because of his position as Editor of Society. Why did they never marry?”
“Gentlemen have been known to have a love nest, you know, Harry.”
“Yes. But they are invariably married men, who couldn’t marry the girl.”
“Perhaps she didn’t want to marry him, so he agreed to the liaison rather than lose her altogether.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks. She had a rich man. So long as they were merely living together he could clear out at any time and leave her flat. As a wife she would have a permanent security—or alimony. Of course she wanted to marry him if she liked him well enough to become his mistress. So why didn’t they?”
Merry skipped though the pages of the dossier containing the interview with the girl. “She says (he read out): ‘There were circumstances on both sides which made a less public association than marriage an advantage’.”
“What circumstances? That in itself is an odd statement coming from a woman,” Manson insisted.
“Then we’d better look into them,” suggested Merry. “And the first thing to know is who Mary Ross is, and what her social life has been. Rogers can find that out.”
Inspector Rogers was the Yard’s ‘Smart Set and Social expert’. He specialised in knowing by sight and reputation—hidden as well as revealed—everybody with any standing in Society. And the things he knew would have caused some of them heartburnings and no little consternation.
“Mary Ross?” he echoed over the phone. “No, I don’t know her. What part of the country would she be riding round?”
They told him.
“Mortensen country, eh? Well, I know his haunts and I knew him. But nary a filly named Mary Ross. Give me half-an-hour, and I’ll track her down.”
He took an hour and reported failure. “Nobody, Doc., knows any Mary Ross. And although the deceased Mortensen had passages with quite a number of ladies, open and clandestine, no Mary Ross was among them. Not unless she was outside his set, mark you. I don’t know anything about that angle.”
Manson replaced the receiver. He looked thoughtful. The mistrust he had felt of the girl returned in heightened force. Together he and Merry went through the transcript of their interview with Miss Ross, analysing each question and the answer given, Manson now and then adding a comment on the girl’s demeanour in answering. Nothing seemed to present itself as a possible line of inquiry until the last sentence in the interview. Manson, reading it through for the second time, laid down the dossier and sat back in his chair
.
“Queer!” he said. Merry jerked his head up from his reading.
“What is queer, Harry?” he asked. There was an alert look of rewakened interest on his face.
“Listen,” Manson said; and read slowly:
“I am afraid I shall have to ask you to give up your keys.”
“That’s all right, sir, I shall not be coming back to the flat. I only came to collect my things.”
He looked hard at his deputy.
“I don’t get it, Harry,” Merry said. “No? Now, Jim, you met your wife who was in the ‘country-house’ circle, and married her. Supposing I had at that time asked Mrs. Merry the same question, and in the same circumstances, would she have given the same answer?”
“I should think so.”
“Do you? What kind of country-house woman would use the word ‘sir’ to a policeman asking her a question. Take out the ‘sir’ and the answer is a natural one for a woman of her presumed standing. Put in the ‘sir’ and she becomes a woman accustomed to paying deference. Where does that take us?”
“To a servant.”
Manson started and stared hard.
“A servant,” he said softly. “A servant. Supposing she was a maid in the country house in which she says she first met Mortensen. Have we been mesmerised by her style of living into an obvious inference?”
Merry slapped a hand on his knees. “That would account for the advantages on Mortensen’s side in not marrying her,” he said. “He could hardly take a former maid back as his wife. Even the most democratic guests wouldn’t stand for that.”
“And the disadvantage, so far as he was concerned is that she wouldn’t have been invited.” Merry grinned. “But have we any evidence that she was a maid?”
A smile lightened Manson’s face, and alertness came into it.
“Now the point has been raised the evidence is staring us in the face,” he said. “Jones has given it to us, and we haven’t realised it.” He turned to Jones’s report of his investigation in Mary Ross’s flat. “There are two fur coats—a mink and a coney like his wife wears, in fact like anyone who can afford only a cheap fur wears. Now, a woman who can afford mink isn’t going to double it with coney if she wants a second coat for rougher wear. She’d have musquash, or something like that. But a coney would be luxury to a maid.”
