Tenant for Death

by Cyril Hare

  A streamer headline across the front page shouted in large capitals: “RIDDLE OF MISSING FINANCIER: WHERE IS MR. BALLANTINE?” Beneath it was a photograph of a man in early middle age, with a prosperous, conceited, not unhandsome face, dressed in a morning coat, grey top-hat and stock, an orchid in his buttonhole. The caption ran: “Mr. Lionel Ballantine; a photo taken at this year’s Derby.”

  The sergeant looked from the photograph to the distorted face of the murdered man, and back again. “That’s him all right, I can see that,” he said.

  He pursed his lips and remained silent for a moment.

  “What were you two doing here?” he asked.

  “Checking the inventory for the leaseholder. Miss Penrose,” put in Lewis, who felt it was time to assert himself. “She had let this place furnished and——”

  “She hadn’t let it to Mr. Ballantine, I suppose?” asked Tapper.

  “Lord, no! The tenant was a Mr. James. Sergeant, do you think——?”

  “I think you two had better get on with your job of checking the inventory,” said Tapper. “We shall know then if anything’s missing from the house, at all events, and by the time you’ve finished I expect there will be someone here from the Yard to hear what you’ve got to say. Be careful, now. Nothing’s to be touched; and if you find anything suspicious, call me at once.”

  The young men left the room obviously relieved to be able to get away from it and the atmosphere of violence and horror that pervaded it. The sergeant, after posting the constable at the front door to warn off any intruders, pulled out his notebook and pencil and began to make laborious notes in his round, board-school handwriting. Presently he was interrupted by the arrival of an officer from the police station, who brought with him the divisional surgeon. The latter, a pale little man with a reddish moustache, took little time over his examination.

  “Strangulation,” he said briefly.

  “How long has he been dead?” asked Tapper.

  “It’s difficult to say—two or three days, approximately.”

  “Well, we shall have to wait for further orders before we move him. Then perhaps you’ll be able to tell us something further.”

  “A message from the Yard has just come through,” put in the newly arrived constable. “Inspector Mallett is coming down immediately. Meanwhile nothing is to be touched.”

  “Does he think I don’t know my own business?” grumbled Tapper. “You can get along back to the station, me lad, and if you meet any newspaper men on the doorstep, keep your mouth shut.”

  By way of protest he put away his notebook, as though determined that the too officious Mallett should have no further help from him. Consequently, he at once found himself with nothing to do. The surgeon rolled a cigarette and inserted it in a long holder, and settling down in a chair began to smoke with an air of melancholy boredom. Tapper tried to engage him in conversation, but found him little more communicative than Mr. Ballantine would have been. Finally, casting about for something to occupy his mind, he picked up the newspaper which Harper had left behind, and set himself to read the letterpress which straggled above, below and round-about the photographs of Mr. Lionel Ballantine and of the ornate façade of his London offices.

  It was a mixture of fact and comment. The facts were brief, for the obvious reason that none were known beyond the all-important one that Mr. Ballantine, leaving his office at the usual time on Friday afternoon, had not been seen up to a late hour on Sunday night, although a large number of persons were extremely anxious to see him. The comment, on the other hand, was voluminous and pointed. It was couched in the careful style that is usually adopted by the press in relation to a man whose prosecution is to be expected but is not yet inevitable. It was artistically contrived to leave every reader under the firm impression that the object of its attention was a fugitive from justice, while cautiously abstaining from anything that might conceivably go beyond the bounds set by the law of libel. Mr. Lionel Ballantine, the newspaper reminded its readers, had for many years been an important figure in the City of London. He was in particular the chairman of the London and Imperial Estates Company, Ltd., a concern with an issued capital of two and a half million pounds. The article went on to remind its readers that the shares in that company, after having made what in a happy turn of phrase it described as a meteoric rise during the early part of the year, had collapsed abruptly in the past few days and were now quoted at one-tenth of their nominal value. The City, it added sagely, was gravely perturbed at the turn of events and the annual report and balance sheet, due in a fortnight’s time, were anxiously awaited. It went on to hint vaguely at repercussions and developments that might be expected. In conclusion, the writer remarked with an air of detachment that would not have deceived a child that it would be recollected that Mr. Ballantine’s name had been mentioned at the sensational trial of John Fanshawe over four years previously.

  The sergeant looked up from his reading.

  “Fanshawe!” he said aloud.

  “Eh?” said the surgeon, spilling his cigarette ash on the carpet.

  “He was released from Maidstone the other day, wasn’t he?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Fanshawe out and Ballantine dead,” mused Tapper. “Quite a coincidence, you might say. Wasn’t Ballantine supposed to have been mixed up in the Fanshawe bank fraud?”

  But the surgeon’s interest in the subject seemed to have been already exhausted. Tapper sighed and turned to the football forecasts.

  7

  INSPECTOR MALLETT

  * * *

  * * *

  Monday, November 16th

  Lewis and Harper, their work above stairs completed, descended to a ground floor that seemed suddenly to have become crowded with people. Heavy police boots tramped in the hall, and through the smoking-room door they could see the sudden flash of magnesium as photographers recorded the appearance of the room and its occupant. Scotland Yard had taken possession.

  Sergeant Tapper met them at the foot of the stairs.

  “The inspector wants a word with you,” he said.

  Inspector Mallett was a tall, stout man, whose bulk, as he stood four-square in the middle of the carpet, seemed to make the small room still smaller. From a rosy, round face looked out bland blue eyes, the mild expression of which contrasted oddly with his fierce military moustache. He favoured the two young men with a quiet, appraising stare as they entered.

  “These are the two men who——” began Tapper.

  “Yes,” said Mallett. He turned at once to Harper. “Have you finished with your inventory?” he asked.

  “Yes,” answered Harper. “Every room except this one, of course.”

  “Then just run your eye over this room, and tell me if anything has been taken.”

  Harper began to go through the list, checking it off with the objects in the room. Not for the world would he, in this room, and in the presence of all these strangers, acknowledge the need of Lewis’s help. Lewis, on his part, was equally determined to see that the job was done thoroughly, and to Harper’s extreme annoyance, took up a position at his elbow, where he could look over the inventory and correct what was being done. As quickly as possible Harper completed the work, a desire to be out of the room and to be away from his companion spurring him on.

  “There’s nothing missing,” he announced.

  “Yes, there is,” said the odious Lewis in the same breath. “The blind-cord has gone.”

  Harper could not avoid showing his annoyance at his own lapse and his contempt for the other’s uncalled-for nicety; but the inspector smiled grimly.

  “Is this it, do you think?” he asked, pointing to the dead man.

  Both had hitherto averted their eyes from the grisly object in the chair as much as possible, while taking in everything above, below and around it, but now, following the direction of the detective’s pointing finger, they saw protruding from the back of the neck, just above the collar, an unmistakable wooden knob, attached to a th
in cord, most of it so embedded in the folds of the skin as to be invisible. Speechless, they nodded in agreement.

  “Right!” said Mallett cheerfully. “That’s one thing settled, anyway. Now I don’t expect you fellows want to be in here any longer than you can help. Come into the other room.”

  He consulted in low tones with one of his subordinates before leading the way into the front room. While he did so, Harper, his repugnance now conquered by curiosity, gazed with close interest at the face of the dead man. The body had been moved for the photographers to do their work, and it was possible for him now to look at the upturned features more closely. There was no trace of sympathy in the young man’s expression as he stared, but only a deep interest. It seemed unnatural that one who had probably never seen death before, and certainly not in such terrible guise, should be able to regard it with such passionless curiosity. So absorbed was he that he was evidently unaware that he too was the object of scrutiny from eyes no less observant than his own.

  “Well?” said Mallett’s voice suddenly close behind him. “What are you staring at?”

  Harper started, and is was an appreciable time before he could recover his self-possession. When he did speak, however, it was in his airiest and most superior tone. Lewis, listening, privately concluded that he had decided to assume his Oxford manner so as to impress upon the inspector that he was something more than an ordinary estate agent’s clerk.

  “As a matter of fact. Inspector,” he said, “I was wondering why an obviously well-dressed man like that should have chosen to wear a green bow tie with a grey suit.”

  The inspector grunted, but said nothing.

  “Particularly”, pursued Harper, “when it isn’t even decently tied. I shouldn’t like to be seen dead in it myself.”

  “Probably Ballantine wouldn’t either,” snapped Mallett. “If you’ve finished with the camera, cover that up, one of you, until it can be moved.” He strode out of the room, motioning the two young men to follow him.

  “I shan’t keep you long,” said the inspector, when they were alone together. “I know who you are and why you were here. Just let me have a few details about the house. Whose is it?”

  “Miss Penrose’s,” said Harper. “She is a client of ours, and is in Italy for the winter.”

  “That is,” put in Lewis heavily, “Miss Penrose is the leaseholder. Actually the house belongs to Lord Minfield.”

  “We won’t bother about him,” said Mallett. “Then you let it furnished on Miss Penrose’s behalf?”

  “Yes,” said Harper.

  “For how long?”

  “A month, expiring today.”

  “What was the tenant’s name?”

  “Colin James.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Abroad, so far as I know,” said Harper. “That is, on Saturday morning he returned the keys of the house with a letter to say that he was giving up possession and going to France.”

  “What do you know about him?” asked Mallett. “He gave you some references, I suppose?”

  “The only reference he gave was his bank,” said Harper. “He paid the rent in advance.”

  “Which bank was it?”

  “The Southern—the Lower Daylesford Street branch. I remember that because it was the same as the firm’s.”

  The detective paused for a moment, sucking his cheeks reflectively, his broad back to the window, through which came the murmur of a crowd, already collected at the signs of police activity.

  “What did this Colin James look like?” was his next question.

  “He was a fat man,” answered Harper, “or rather, paunchy. I mean, he had a big stomach and a thin face, as if he had a bad digestion. He had a rather large dark brown beard. He was about medium size, and as far as I can remember, he spoke in rather a husky voice.”

  Mallett turned to Lewis. “Do you agree with that?” he asked.

  “I never saw him,” said Lewis. “I only came in on this job because Mr. Browne, my boss, wanted me to help check the inventory.” He could not resist a spiteful glance at Harper as he spoke.

  “In that case you needn’t wait here,” said Mallett. “Get back to your office, tell them what has happened, if they don’t know already, and ask them to have all their records about Mr. James and his tenancy ready for inspection. I’ll let you know when you’re wanted again. Not until the inquest, probably.”

  Lewis left, and the inspector turned to Harper.

  “How often did you see James?” he asked.

  “Only once. He came into the office in the morning when I was alone, and said he wanted a quiet furnished house in a hurry. I took him out and showed him this place——”

  “Leaving the office empty?”

  “Mr. Browne was in the inner office, but wouldn’t see him from where he was.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “He liked the look of it and wanted to move in that afternoon. I took him back to the office and he gave me his cheque, which I paid into the bank during the morning. In the afternoon, Mr. Browne made out the tenancy agreement, and later on in the day Mr. James came back and signed it.”

  “Were you alone in the office then?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact everyone else had gone home, and I had to wait specially late for him.”

  “The tenancy agreement will be in the office, I suppose?”

  Harper appeared to hesitate. “Yes—I suppose so,” he said. “It should be, at any rate.”

  “You’ve given a very good description of a man you only saw once,” Mallett pursued. “Had you any particular reason for remembering him?”

  “No—I don’t think so. Except of course a beard is a bit unusual.”

  “Quite. Would you know him again if you were to see him?”

  “I think so—only there’s the beard again. I’m not sure if I should know him without that.”

  The inspector nodded thoughtfully.

  “Was he alone in the house, do you know?” he asked. “It seems a biggish place for one man to take.”

  “So far as I know he was.”

  “What about servants?”

  “He said he would want a man to come in by the day. I engaged one for him.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Crabtree—Richard Crabtree. He lives in the Terrace, just round the corner. No. 14.”

  “Thank you,” said Mallett, making a note of the address. “Now about this inventory. Is there anything missing from the house?”

  “No—nothing of any consequence.”

  “Anything may be of consequence in a case like this,” said Mallett severely. “You had better leave the list with me for reference. Is there anything here that isn’t on it?”

  “Only the linen and cutlery which James brought in with him.”

  “That may be important. Where did it come from?”

  “I ordered it myself for him from the stores near our office, and he gave me the money when he called to sign the agreement.”

  “Rather an unusual transaction for a house agent to do, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it was,” admitted Harper. “But he asked me to do it, and I didn’t think of it at the time.”

  “I see.” Mallett went to the door. The interview was evidently at an end, and Harper rose to go. But the detective stopped him.

  “Just one more question,” he said. “Have you ever seen Ballantine before?”

  “No.”

  “Then what exactly was it that made you stare at him in the way you did just now?”

  “Exactly what I told you,” answered Harper coldly.

  “No more than that?”

  “No.”

  The inspector shrugged his shoulders. “Very well. I shall keep in touch with you and let you know when you are wanted again. Good day.”

  He opened the door, and Harper stepped into the open air again. He was conscious of the sound of many voices, of the click of cameras, of the hot breath of a crowd surging round him. But in
his relief to be free at last of the horrors of the morning he gave them no heed. Pushing his way through, he walked at his best pace to the end of the street. Then he suddenly realized that he was very tired and distinctly hungry. Looking at his watch, he was astonished to find that it was not yet one o’clock. In an hour and a half he had lived an age. From the window, Inspector Mallett, with a quizzical expression on his lips and a slight frown barring his broad forehead, watched him go.

  8

  RICHARD CRABTREE

  * * *

  * * *

  Tuesday, November 17th

  If the disappearance of Lionel Ballantine had been front-page news in the morning papers, his reappearance as a corpse in an obscure South Kensington house was a sensation of the first magnitude. It occupied the posters of every news-sheet in London, quite excluding such minor matters as a Cabinet crisis, a film star’s divorce and an earthquake in China. From morning till night a throng of morbid sightseers blocked the pavement of Daylesford Gardens, to the disgust of its retired but still surviving inhabitants, and gazed with hungry rapture at the commonplace exterior of No. 27. When they finally returned home they were able to feast their eyes on faithful photographs of the same view. One photographer, more enterprising than the rest, had been able to penetrate to the back, and thence to secure a picture of the window of the actual room where the dead man had been found. His effort was rightly considered to be quite a scoop by his paper, which further assisted its readers by marking the particular window with a cross.

  The police had been chary in the details which they issued for publication, but news editors and special reporters were not slow to make the most of the material available. Everybody who could conceivably have had any knowledge of the tragedy, not to mention a great many who could not, was pestered by interviewers. Mrs. Brent’s particular friend, making a quiet and quick getaway from No. 34, had the fright of his life when he was held up just outside the house by a determined young man whom he took to be an enquiry agent, but who was in fact merely a reporter thirsting for a personal story from a resident. Jackie Roach, on the other hand, thoroughly enjoyed himself. Not only did the murder, as he had foretold, stimulate his sales, but for the first and last time in his life, he was himself part of the news he sold. To be shouting: “Special! Murder! All the latest!”—to be thrusting into eager hands papers with your own picture on the front page—to be photographed in the act of doing so by another pressman—to know that that picture would be in tomorrow’s paper, and that tomorrow you might be photographed selling a paper with a picture in it of yourself selling a paper with a picture of yourself—it all fairly went to a chap’s head, more even than the drinks which those reporters kept on standing you every time you thought of something extra for them to put in the story.