At the next stop, Nigel put his head out and looked upwards. The top floor seemed to be dark. He switched off the electric light in the lift. He did not want to be a sitting target, all lit up, when he got there. I’m as bad as Miss Finlay, he thought; jumping to conclusions: childish: probably Jimmy’s just got an attack of indigestion, or cut his finger, or found the missing file. Well, here we are, sixth floor, stop, pause, door opens. . . . He slid quickly through the opening door. Darkness. Damn the dim-out, the Japs aren’t likely to . . . His fingers fumbling along the wall, found the switches, pressed them all down. The passage. Quite familiar. Quite empty. Doors all shut. Walk quietly along it, then. On my left, Brian’s door, Merrion’s door, my door; on my right, the two doors of the Photographs Library. All in order. Now, the ante-room. Open. On my right, Jimmy’s door, shut: a light showing beneath.
Nigel turned the knob and entered. For a moment, his eye naturally going straight to Jimmy’s desk, he thought the room unoccupied. But only for a moment. His eye moved to the left. And there, at the table where Nita Prince had died, was Jimmy Lake. What made Nigel catch his breath was that the Director seemed to be engaged in prayer. He was kneeling in front of the table, his head buried between his outstretched arms; almost as though he were praying to the ghost of Nita who once had sat there, imploring her to return. Then Nigel noticed the thing sticking out of his back. And the situation became normal again, in so far as murder was a normal thing now in this room.
Nigel Strangeways covered the floor in three strides, stood for a moment gazing down at the knife hilt, protruding from Jimmy’s back, then took hold of the Director and laid him face downwards on the floor. Kneeling, he slipped his hand inside Jimmy’s shirt. The heart was still beating. Nigel took up the telephone receiver, which had been lying off its hook beside Jimmy’s outstretched hand. He got through to the Reception Desk and asked for Mr. Fortescue.
“Hark’ee? Nigel here. Listen. You’ve got to work quick. Jimmy’s been attacked: still breathing: knife—went in a bit too high. Ring up the First Aid Post and tell ’em to send someone up here and to get a doctor, at once. Then ring A.R.P. Control, get Lewis to come up here. You’re holding everyone at the Reception Desk? . . . Good, no one’s to go out that way, repeat no one, not even the Minister. Get hold of whoever’s in charge of the Messengers to-night—he’s to rustle out all his men, take ’em out by the side entrance in Manning Street, and post them round the building outside, as many men on each side as possible, and if they see any one getting out of a ground-floor window, they’re to nab him. That side door must be locked again, of course. And I want one man to make sure all the other side doors are locked: if he finds one open, he must report to me at once. Are you with me? Good. Doctor first, remember, and bring him up yourself the moment he comes.”
Nigel rang off, took up the external telephone, and rang Superintendent Blount’s home number. The Superintendent was just going to bed. Nigel told him what had happened and what steps he had taken. Blount agreed to come at once, picking up a couple of police on the way.
Moving back to the door, Nigel turned off the light switches. The reading-lamp on the Director’s desk went out, as well as the centre light on the ceiling. The room was pitch dark. He switched on again, went over to the desk. No signs of disorder, of a struggle. The desk was tidy—blotter, calendar, pen-tray, ink bottle, one tray of papers neatly arranged on its broad surface. He tried the drawers: they were all locked. Straightening up, he moved away towards Nita’s table, peering down at the carpet. Presently, between her table and the door, he found a few fresh bloodstains on the carpet; and looking closer, his eye almost level with the floor, faint marks on the carpet as if something had been dragged towards the door. These he covered with newspaper.
At this moment the nurse from the First Aid Post arrived. She was a calm, sensible woman, and Nigel at once took her into his confidence.
“Mr. Lake has been stabbed. You’ve got a doctor coming, nurse?”
“Yes. He’ll be here in five minutes.”
“Good work. Take a look at him, please. He’s alive still. Can we do anything for him before the doctor comes?”
The nurse tried the pulse, nodded to Nigel, and made the unconscious man more comfortable.
“There may be some internal bleeding,” she said, “but the knife must have missed the heart. He should pull through all right, if the lung is not affected. How did——?”
“No questions now. Oh, there you are, Mr. Lewis——”
The door had opened, and the A.R.P. Control Officer came in, a small, alert, red-headed man.
“My goodness, what’s this? Mr. Lake, is it?” he asked.
“Mr. Lake has been attacked. His assailant may be in the building still. Mr. Fortescue is seeing that all the exits are stopped. Got any fire-watchers on duty to-night?”
“Sorry, Mr. Strangeways. Only three of us. Since the German war ended, we’ve cut down——”
“Three will do. You know this building like the back of your hand. I want you to start searching it from top to bottom. Start on this floor and work downwards. There’ll be some police along presently to help you. Make a list of everyone you find. If any one acts suspiciously, grab him at once. I’ll do the apologising afterwards, if necessary. And make it a search, like a good chap: anywhere a man, or woman, could hide. Do you know Mr. Ingle, Mr. Squires and Mr. Billson, of this Division, by appearance?”
“Yep.”
“And Major Kennington, who used to work in Military Censorship?”
“Yep.”
“If you find any of them, bring him straight along here. Never mind about Civil Service etiquette; I’ll cover you. Got all that?”
“Savvy. I’ll use this telephone, if I may, and get my chaps up here. Bit of excitement again.”
Mr. Lewis and his fire-watchers had just left the room to begin their search when the Deputy Director arrived with the doctor.
“H’m, yes,” said the latter, after a brief examination. “Nasty business. He’ll do, though, with luck. I’m going to extract this knife first. Nurse, you’ve got some pads and bandages ready? Good.”
“Use my handkerchief, please. Round the handle,” said Nigel quickly.
The doctor gave him a curious glance, then took the handkerchief. He and the nurse knelt down beside the body. Harker Fortescue turned his head away. Presently the doctor gave the knife a strong pull. As he did so, and the nurse applied the pads, Jimmy Lake muttered something.
“What was that?” asked Nigel sharply.
The doctor said, “I’m not absolutely certain. Sounded like ‘Alice. She won’t let me go, darling.’ Did you hear, nurse?”
“That’s what I thought he said, sir.”
“Reminds me,” Nigel muttered. “Must ring up his wife. Nurse, please tell me anything else he says. It may be vitally important.”
Nigel found Jimmy’s home number in his address book. Alice Lake answered. She was in bed, but would get out the car and come at once. Oh dear, thought Nigel, I should have done this before. How long since Jimmy telephoned to the refectory?—ten to fifteen minutes. Taking Harker Fortescue aside, he asked him to ring up Major Kennington, Merrion Squires, Brian Ingle and Edgar Billson at their home numbers. The last three, at any rate, lived too far from the Ministry to have been able to get home yet, supposing——
“He’s coming round,” said the doctor, who had applied restoratives. “No, stand back please, everyone.”
Nigel watched the Director’s bloodless face quiver, his eyes open a little, taking in nothing, close, then open again and survey them in a bewildered way.
“The lights went out,” he muttered faintly. “Hello, Nigel old boy.”
“Don’t talk,” said the doctor; and to Nigel, “He mustn’t be questioned yet.”
“That’s all right,” said Nigel. “One thing is pretty certain—he never saw his assailant.”
“How d’you know that, sir?” the doctor asked, rising from beside his patient and
laying a long knife, its handle swathed in Nigel’s handkerchief, on the table. Nigel did not answer. He was staring, with consternation in his eyes, at the knife: he drew the handkerchief away from it: yes, it was one of the knives, pointed, thin-bladed, eighteen inches long, used in the Art Work studio to slice drawing-paper—as effective a substitute for the stiletto as a modern assassin could hope to find.
“And now, sir,” the doctor was presently saying to Harker Fortescue, “if you’ve finished with that telephone, I must ring up for an ambulance. Hospital for this gentleman.”
“No,” said Jimmy, who had been lying with eyes closed. “No. Not hospital. Take me home. Send for Alice.”
“But my dear sir——”
“She’s on her way, Jimmy,” interrupted Nigel. He took the doctor aside, spoke a few words to him urgently.
“No, I cannot take the responsibility. He must have trained attention.”
Nigel shrugged his shoulders. Jimmy spoke again, his voice startling Nigel, so much had it resumed its normal, rather tired, infinitely patient, inexorably firm intonations.
“I am not going to hospital. So let’s have no more of that. Alice, my wife, trained as a nurse. She’s perfectly competent. I’m sorry, doctor, but——”
The latter gave him a searching look, then turned away to telephone for the ambulance.
“Well, Hark’ee?” asked Nigel.
“They are all at home, except Merrion.”
“Did they answer—in person, I mean?”
“Brian and Charles Kennington did. Billson’s wife answered for him, said he’d been in all the evening.”
Nigel’s brow knitted. He began whistling a dreary little tune between his teeth. Firm steps were heard in the passage: Superintendent Blount, two uniformed constables and a plain-clothes man behind him.
“T’ck, t’ck, t’ck,” he clucked briskly. “How’s he doing, doctor?”
“He’ll be all right, provided that——”
Jimmy, thinly but firmly, interrupted. “Superintendent. Tell this excellent doctor, please, that I am not going to hospital.”
“Well. Dear me, now,” Blount patted his bald head. “An impasse, eh? An impasse?”
“Shall we wait till Mrs. Lake arrives, before deciding?” put in Nigel. He took Blount aside and spoke to him. In a minute, the two uniformed policemen had gone off to assist in the search of the building, while Harker Fortescue was deputed to return to the Reception Desk and ring back if the net of Messengers round the Ministry caught anything: he would also find out from the official at the desk whether he had noticed any other member of the Visual Propaganda Division entering the Ministry earlier that night.
“And now, doctor,” said Blount, “I must ask your patient one question.”
Brushing aside the doctor’s remonstrances, he knelt down beside Jimmy.
“Just this one question, Mr. Lake. Did you see the person who attacked you?”
“No. The lights went out, I tell you.”
“Have you any notion who it might be?”
The Director’s head shook wearily, then rolled to one side.
“He’s fainted,” exclaimed the doctor angrily. “I must insist that no more——”
“That’s all I wish to ask,” Blount said: then, turning to Nigel, “You were right. But I don’t just see how——”
“I’ll explain later. Hallo, what’s this?”
The red-headed Mr. Lewis had come in, bristling with excitement. He held up a long white overall-coat, which Nigel recognised at once as the type of garment worn by the people in the Art Work Unit. Mr. Lewis tossed it over to him, bundled up.
“Found it in the Gent’s, fifth floor, stuffed down one of the lavatory bowls. Thought you might be interested. Take a dekko at the right-hand sleeve, Mr. Strangeways.”
Nigel shook out the dripping coat. On the cuff a red stain was visible. The stain, when Blount tried it, was still damp: the rest of the cuff, which could not have been immersed, was dry. Blount turned to the inside of the coat collar, put his finger on the label there, pursed his mouth. Over Blount’s shoulder, Nigel read on the label, indelibly marked, M. Squires.
Blount gave instructions that the search should be continued, with Merrion Squires as its main objective. Five minutes later Mrs. Lake arrived. Jimmy Lake, who was conscious again, gave her a strangely appealing look as she entered—a look, thought Nigel, such as a small boy might give to his mother when he had injured himself in some parentally-forbidden exploit; a mixture of pathos and bravado and uncertainty. Alice Lake took it all pretty coolly: no flutter, no flood of tears or questions. Her husband once again insisted that he should be taken home and not to hospital.
“Very well, Jimmy,” she said in her high, detached little voice. “If you really want to. And the doctor agrees.”
The doctor, now he had met Mrs. Lake, was rather more amenable. After a few words with her, he consented, on condition that he should send a trained nurse in the morning to assist her. The ambulance having just arrived, Jimmy was put on a stretcher and brought away, Mrs. Lake and the doctor following.
Blount and Nigel were alone in the room, the plain-clothes man having been sent off to Merrion Squires’ lodging to keep an eye on it supposing he had escaped from the building.
Nigel now gave Blount a fuller account of the evening’s work, as far as the known facts went. When he had finished, Blount asked him how he had known that the Director never saw his attacker.
“First, because of the lift buttons. Second, because Jimmy was not dead.”
“Now go easy with me. It’s well after midnight, and it’s getting terrible cold in here, and my brain won’t function at its best.”
“Well then. The fact that the lift buttons were all pressed after the lift had got to the basement suggests that the criminal wished to delay us in order to make his own escape.”
“Yes, I can grasp that,” said Blount dryly.
“He would not try to delay us unless he knew we were on our way. After all, he’d not have dared to attack Jimmy at all if he didn’t think this floor was unoccupied, as it usually is at that time of night. Now, how could he know someone was going to come up from the basement just then, unless he had heard Jimmy make his telephone call to the basement refectory?”
“So far, so good.”
“Right. We have the criminal after he has stabbed Jimmy, hearing Jimmy telephone. The criminal couldn’t have been in this room still, or he’d have prevented Jimmy telephoning. But, when he heard him using the telephone, and knew he hadn’t succeeded in killing him, why didn’t he go back and finish the job properly? The only possible reason is that he was afraid of being recognised. He knew we’d be on our way up. He couldn’t be certain that, if he attacked Jimmy a second time, Jimmy might not survive for the minute it would take us to get up here, and give us his name. Besides, of course, he’d left his knife in the body. But, if Jimmy had seen and recognised him when he first stabbed him, then it was absolutely imperative that—at whatever risk—he should return here and finish him off before we arrived. But he didn’t return and finish him off. Therefore Jimmy had not recognised him.”
“Q.E.D. Yes, that’s—e’eh—vairy ingenious. How do you reconstruct things, then?”
“The criminal opens this door, puts his hand through, switches off the lights, all in a twinkling. One of those switches, by the way, controls Jimmy’s desk light. The room is pitch-dark. I tried it. Jimmy—you remember him saying just now ‘the light went out’—Jimmy would naturally make for the switches, assuming it was a boyish joke by Hark’ee or someone. The criminal has slipped into the room. He gets behind Jimmy, feels for him, strikes. Then he goes out. There are blood-spots on the carpet there, within a few feet of the door. That’s where Jimmy went down. There are also marks of dragging. Under the newspapers there. Jimmy was not quite out. Dragged himself to the switches, turned them on, dragged himself to the nearest telephone, on Nita’s table. I suggest that the criminal saw the light under the door
, or heard Jimmy moving. Too late to do anything about it, without being recognised. He tears down the passage, slams down the lift buttons, turns out the passage lights—if he hadn’t done so on his way in, runs down one flight of stairs, hides his coat in the Gent’s, and then——” Nigel snapped his fingers.
“And then, presumably, runs down the remaining flights and tries to get out of the building.”
“He’d not have time to get past the Reception Desk before Hark’ee was there.”
“Plenty of windows on the ground floor. Your Messengers don’t move very fast, I’ve noticed. No, I don’t fancy we’ll find your Mr. Squires here to-night.”
“My Mr. Squires? No. I fancy you won’t.”
Something in Nigel’s tone made Blount glance at him keenly.
“I noticed you kept talking about ‘the criminal.’ Very correct. I doubt it’s not like you to be so correct.”
“Well, I ask you——”
“Och, I know what you’re going to say,” chuckled Blount. “A man doesn’t attempt a murder with a knife that can easily be traced to him: and, if he does, he will not leave it in the body for us to find. Nor does he wear a white coat with his name clearly marked on it, to attempt a murder in a dark room where it’s the one kind of garment that might make him visible. Nor does he stuff the coat down a lavatory one floor below, carefully arranging that the cuff with his victim’s blood on it shall remain above the water. It’s all vairy deplorable, oh my, oh my, it is! But then, where is your Mr. Squires? Why isn’t he at home in his pure white bed?”
“Blount,” pronounced Nigel, “there are times when I come near to misjudging you.”
“I’m not so gullible as I look,” Blount conceded. “At least, I hope not. Well, we shall know before long—Simpson is going to ring me from Squires’ lodgings when he gets there. And in the meantime, I’ll take a look round this room.”
Minute for Murder Page 10
