Black Maria, M. A.: A Classic Crime Novel

by John Russell Fearn

  “In other matters I have used more open tactics in order to judge reactions. Alice is guarded and has lost all her early manner of inanity: I begin to suspect a shrewd, grim side to her nature. Janet is cold, but inwardly agitated. Richard hints at new theories that led him to suspect murder—and the moment I came into the open it seemed to lead him to the decision to visit town suddenly. I cannot agree that it was purely coincidence and shall therefore look into it.

  “Where was Peter Wade on the day of Ralph’s death? What smashed a wine glass? These two points I must clear up.

  “Janet says she spent the fatal afternoon doing correspondence with her maid Mary. This must be checked.

  “Richard’s typewriter must be found and the puzzling incident in his bedroom fully cleared up.”

  Satisfied, Maria locked the book away, dressed for further outside excursions, then went downstairs. In the hall she summoned Walters.

  “Madam?”

  “Walters, I want you to think very carefully. What exactly happened here on the day your master—er—died? Can you recall the events which took place?”

  “Very easily, madam. Pardon me....” He dived a hand into his coat and produced a small, thick diary, thumbed the gold-edged leaves swiftly and looked apologetic meanwhile. “I hope, madam, that you will forgive this little indulgence, but it is a habit of mine to record all matters of the household—for efficiency, you under­stand....”

  “A very excellent system,” Maria acknowledged, beaming—and wondered why on earth she had not questioned him ere this. It soon became evident that he was pretty close to being a walking statistical machine.

  “June the fourth,” he said presently. “In the morning until after lunch, everybody was at home—the mistress, Mr. Richard, Miss Patricia, and Miss Janet. By ‘everybody’ I am excepting the master, of course. He left the house as usual at precisely eight forty-three. After lunch Miss Patricia left the house and departed in her sports car. Mr. Richard went up to his room for his usual rest. Miss Janet’s maid Mary arrived and she and Miss Janet spent the after­noon in the lounge attending to correspondence.... Shall I go on, madam?”

  “By all means!” Maria exclaimed, making notes of her own.

  “The mistress spent most of the afternoon on the terrace, reading. There was only one caller beside the usual tradesmen—”

  “Whom?” Maria looked up sharply.

  “A young lady, madam. She had an urgent message for Mr. Richard. I took it up to his room and awaited his answer. He had to write it down, so I presume it was private.”

  “Then he didn’t come down and see this young lady for himself?”

  “No, madam.”

  “Hmmm.... While you were upstairs, where was she?”

  “I asked her to be seated in the hall here—in the chair over there.”

  “She gave no name?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Walters reflected; then, “I imagine it was an important message because Mr. Richard asked me to get a book out of the library—Dunsant’s Electrical Reactions I believe it was. Then he seemed to change his mind, for he cancelled the request before I had even reached the door of his room. He said he would get it for himself later on.”

  “And did he?” Maria asked.

  “I think he did, madam, yes....” Walters paused, his wavering eyes back on his diary. “There are more notes if you would care—”

  “In a moment, Walter. Tell me, what did this young lady look like?”

  “She was blonde, straight-featured, good-looking. About five feet tall and maybe twenty-four years of age.”

  Maria smiled pensively.

  “Did you ever consider entering the field of criminology, Walters? You have an amazing mind for detail....”

  He gave one of his rare smiles. “You are too generous, madam. The well-trained servant knows every detail, otherwise he is not well-trained. I have long prided myself on having an eye for events.... But to revert to my diary— The master came home at five forty-one precisely. He went to his library at six fifteen. Only the mistress was at home otherwise, and she had retired to her room.... At nine ten precisely the master rang for his wine. I took it to the library and— I think you know what happened then, madam.”

  “He rang at nine ten for his wine?” Maria repeated, thinking. “Was that not rather an early hour for it?”

  “He varied the time to suit his requirements, madam. But it was nine ten: I noted it by the kitchen clock when he rang. And since the kitchen clock is electric, it is always synchronized to Eastern Standard Time.”

  “Hmmm. Naturally you gave these details to the police?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “As I understand it you broke into the library, found my brother lying dead the armchair with the revolver near to him, and the radio going full volume?”

  Walters nodded. “I switched it off and called the police.”

  “Can you recall what the radio was playing?”

  “Er—yes. It was operatic music, obviously relayed from the concert in which Miss Janet was singing.”

  Maria nodded and made a note. “What time exactly did you break into the library after realizing tragedy had happened?”

  “It would be about ten minutes after the master had rung for his wine. I became alarmed at the lack of answer from the library, called the mistress down, and— It would be approximately nine twenty,” Walters concluded.

  Maria put her notebook away and smiled.

  “An excellent record of events, Walters.”

  “Thank you, madam.” He put his diary back in his pocket.

  “There is one other thing, Walters. During the afternoon did you hear any strange sounds from the library, observe anybody go in or out of it? Did anybody in the family, for example, ask you for a pair of stepladders?”

  “Why—no!” Walters looked astonished.

  “Very well, thank you—that will be all.” Then as he turned away Maria added, “Please tell the mistress I shall be home during the evening sometime.”

  He bowed an acknowledgment and went on his way.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Maria left the Black residence with Dick’s headquarters as her goal. As she strolled along she thought a good deal about what Walters had told her—and of other recollections, the one that obtruded itself most was the broken wine glass. Somewhere it fitted into the pattern—but where? She felt irritated at being balked.... She was still thinking about it when she arrived at the cabaret building. Dick was absent and his little office was closed. Maria compressed her lips as she recalled that he had merely referred to “business in town....” That might mean anywhere.

  She returned to the doorman.

  “Where is Mr. Black this afternoon, my man?”

  “Mr. Black? Ain’t he in his office?”

  “Obviously not!”

  “Now let me think....” The man put down his duster and reflected; then he snapped his fingers. “I know where he might be, if it’s really urgent. Depends if it is a business matter.”

  “It is most definitely urgent,” Maria retorted.

  “Ah! Then you can reach him no doubt at Hanray Apartments in Times Square.”

  Maria frowned. “Hanray Apartments....”

  “Yeah. His associate, Miss Conway, lives there. Any important messages for him can be left with her—see? I wouldn’t have told you had it not been urgent.”

  Maria gave a nod of thanks and went on her way. In ten minutes she had reached Hanray Apartments and stood in the imposing doorway surveying the copper-plate list of tenants. Finally she took the lift to the fifth floor, stepped out, and walked along the richly carpeted corridor. Everything appeared very opulent. There seemed little doubt that the finances of Miss Conway were exten­sive....

  At the door of 409 Maria paused, eyeing the neat copper plate under the bell push—

  Miss Jean Conway

  Sound Engineer

  “So—the science of sound,” Maria reflected. “And she is probably the young lady I
saw leaving Richard’s office....”

  She paused with her knuckles an inch from the door panel as a voice made itself heard. It was a girl’s voice, quite distinct.

  “I think you’re a rat! A two-timing rat! And I don’t care who knows it!”

  “Oh, you do!” Dick’s voice snapped back, cold and hard. “Then get this, you damned little gold-digger! For two cents I’d—”

  He stopped suddenly and muttered something. Maria took advantage of the lull and knocked sharply. In a moment the door opened and Dick stood there in shirtsleeves, a pencil behind his ear, his face hot and harassed. He gave a start of surprise.

  “Well, if it isn’t my favorite Aunt! How on earth did you find me?”

  “The doorman at the cabaret—“

  “Oh, Charlie! Of course—”

  “Won’t you come in?” asked a girl’s voice, and from round the angle of the door there appeared the slender blonde girl Maria had seen leaving Dick’s office the previous day. She was holding a wad of clipped typescript in one hand and a blue pencil in the other.

  “This is—is Jean Conway, a close friend of mine,” Dick said, essaying a smile.

  “Why, of course, Miss Black!” Jean said impulsively. “Dick has mentioned you so often.” She tossed aside her pencil and held out her hand. “Do come in, please!”

  Maria shook hands and entered slowly, took the chair Jean drew forth for her, and sat down. She glanced idly round the room. It was well furnished and yet looked untidy. By the window was a desk upon which reposed endless sheets of quarto, a Dictaphone, a telephone, and a typewriter. Apart from this office-like quality the room was clearly intended to be a lounge. There was a grand piano, bookcase, bureau....

  “Well, Aunt, has something important happened?” Dick asked briefly.

  “It was important, yes, but—” Maria broke off and frowned. “Am I right in thinking that you two were quarrelling a moment ago? I distinctly heard—”

  “Oh, that!” The girl laughed. “It was the Dictaphone....” She nodded her fair head towards it. “Our play,” she said in pride. “We were doing a bit of rehearsal. Naturally Dick has told you all about it?”

  Dick looked uncomfortable and said nothing. The girl’s keen gray eyes turned to him.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked in surprise.

  “Well, I— No, I haven’t told anybody anything,” he growled. “We said we would keep it a secret and I’ve done so. That was what we planned, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, but—” Jean looked at Maria solemnly. “I do believe I have put my foot in it!”

  “So,” Maria said slowly, “this Dictaphone was the ‘woman’ in your room the other night, Richard?”

  “The—the what?” Jean exclaimed; then hen Maria had ex­plained to her she went off into a fit of merriment.

  “Yes, it’s right enough,” Dick growled. “I suppose it all seemed a bit queer.... You see, Aunt, Jean and I are working together on a play, but the plot is so original—at least we think it is—that we don’t want it to leak out before we’re ready to launch the thing properly. In my profession a chance word might give the business away. So we tried—at least I tried—to keep the whole thing a secret. We even play the parts ourselves in the preliminary stages so that nobody else can be in on it until we’re ready for casting. We speak our parts into the Dictaphone and then play them back and judge results. The other night I was not sure of one section and took the Dictaphone home with me. I had the thing on full volume without realizing it— Well, I guess it woke you up. Rather than give anything away I tried to convince you that you had had a night­mare.”

  “And why should I have given anything away?” Maria asked calmly.

  “No reason: only you might have— We all let things slip out accidentally sometimes. I couldn’t take the chance. Plenty of smart aleck writers could beat me to it with this plot because we don’t get much spare time in which to work on it.”

  “In other words, Miss Black, a play plotted in camera,” Jean smiled. “And is it giving us a headache! Dick has to spend half his time with his cabaret and that means I have the typing to do. Then when he gets time off I’m usually out somewheres doing professional work, and he types instead. Only on very rare occasions do we both get time off together as it is today.”

  “Which, Richard, is why you did not have your usual rest today?” Maria asked, relaxing.

  “That’s right,” he nodded; then he looked contrite, “I’m so sorry, Aunt, if I led you up the garden.... By the way, Jean and I are engaged, only nobody knows just yet. It might stop me getting the best work out of some of my lovelies,” he grinned.

  Maria looked at them both in turn—his warm and anxious face; the girl’s keen and bright.... Then she gave one of her rare chuckles.

  “What?” Dick asked, rather uneasily it seemed.

  “Nothing, Richard—nothing! I was just thinking of some of the things I had thought of to explain the presence of a woman in your room in the early hours. And it wasn’t improved by your sisters’ talk of woman-beating propensities, either!”

  “Just gas,” Dick grunted. “You know what sisters are.”

  “Suppose,” Jean said, “I fix up some tea? Suppose too, Miss Black, that I call you ‘Aunt’? So much more informal. You would like some tea, I know: I always associate England with tea. I’ll go and fix it—it’s my maid’s day off...,” and she departed to other regions of the apartment.

  Maria got to her feet, moved leisurely to the typewriter and studied it. Dick watched her in complete silence.

  “Bit of an old crock,” he said. “Only we manage to work it between us. We started off with it, doing the manuscript I mean, and there was no point then in getting a new machine and doing all that retyping. Two sets of type in one script puts a producer off his stroke. I know!”

  Maria went on studying the machine. It was perfectly intact even though it was an archaic model. At length she turned.

  “This play of yours should be remarkably original, Richard, to need so much secrecy....”

  “We think so. Matter of fact, the original plot was conceived by Jean. She got it together as the natural outcome of her profession. Maybe you’ve noticed the plate outside the door? She is employed by a firm who control sound apparatus in cinemas. Her job is to service the apparatus, correct faults in an emergency, and so forth. Highly technical work....” Dick broke off and smiled ruefully. “I suppose it’s really rather odd—both of us with plenty of money yet no time to get together.”

  There was silence for a moment as Maria fondled her watch-chain, then Dick seemed to suddenly remember.

  “Say, what did you want to see me about?”

  “As a matter of fact, Richard, I was going to ask you to elaborate your views on why you thought your father was murdered.”

  “Yes.... Well, I have one very good theory of how the murder might have been done, as I told you. But I have nobody whom I suspect—only the method. You see, I—”

  “Now, Aunt, here we are!”

  Jean came in suddenly from the domestic regions, wheeling a tea wagon in front of her on which tea was prepared.

  “How’s that for efficiency?” she asked, smiling. “And I’m hanged if we won’t have tea as well this time, eh, Dick? In honor of Aunt’s visit!”

  “Yes—sure we will....” He looked at Maria and shrugged his shoulders at this second interruption in his efforts to explain.

  “Rather a disturbing business about Patricia, isn’t it?” Jean asked seriously, pouring out the tea. “I am sure it must have upset everybody. Dick was telling me how you—”

  “I only did what I thought was necessary,” Maria said quietly. Then she went on, “I’d rather forget the whole business for a while, Miss Conway—”

  “Oh, please call me Jean.”

  “Very well—Jean it shall be.” Maria took the cup of tea. “Tell me, what sort of a plot are you working out? Or is it still too much of a secret to divulge? Richard tells me that it was you who t
hought of it....”

  “Yes, I did. A completely new way of killing somebody without being near them....” Jean smiled reflectively. “Sounds a dia­bolical way for a bright girl to spend her spare time, doesn’t it?”

  “It might prove of ultimate benefit,” Maria said gravely.

  Just for an instant the girl’s gray eyes were full of sharp inquiry; then again she was her smiling self.

  “I think Dick is too cautious,” Jean went on, stirring her tea. “When we planned secrecy it was hardly intended to include re­lations—at least not responsible ones like you. Why, you might be able to make some suggestions! You see, it is the story of a man—an awfully nasty piece of work, by the way—who is murdered while the real murderer is far away. The solution is—a locomotive whistle! What do you think of that?”

  “A locomotive whistle?” Maria repeated, puzzled.

  “Well, that is how it is at present. For that matter any strident whistle would suffice.... You see, I happen to know almost all there is to know about sound. In our story the villain is a crystal gazer, a quack astrologer, but that’s a blind for his real motives. He is found dead with his face all cut up as it lies in his broken crystal. It looks like heart failure...only it isn’t. It’s murder.”

  “Very interesting.” Maria sipped her tea. “And just how is it done?”

  “The murderer switches globes. He takes away the real crystal and substitutes one filled with lethal gas. At a chosen time—which we haven’t yet fixed—an engine whistle or a factory siren goes off. The crystal gazer is looking into the ‘crystal’ at that moment: all that has been planned, of course.”

  “And then?”

  Jean put down her cup. “The whistle smashes the globe and the gas floods the villain’s face, killing him instantly. The gas evaporates and leaves no clue. The murderer is far away at the time and can prove it.”

  “Hmm...,” Maria said, and pondered. “Isn’t it just a bit unconvincing?”

  “Lord, no! It’s entirely logical. Ask any expert in sound—a singer, a piano tuner, a teacher of the deaf.... It is a proven fact that a sound wave, a vibration in the air, will smash a hollow glass globe in pieces—a Humboldt globe, as it is called—providing the sound is high enough in pitch, sustained enough, and intense enough.”