Tenant for Death

by Cyril Hare

  “Yes, sir. Mr. James spelt it out to me, same as you see it there. Come to think of it, I never saw ’im write anything, ’isself.”

  “And when was it you went to Brook’s for the tickets?”

  “That would be the Tuesday, sir, before ’e went.”

  Mallett spoke into the house telephone at his elbow.

  “I want an enquiry put through to Paris at once,” he said. “Ask them to be good enough to find out if anyone answering to the description of James arrived at the Hotel Du Plessis on Saturday morning.” He added the address.

  “Now tell me anything you can about Mr. James,” he said to Crabtree.

  What Crabtree could tell proved disappointingly little. It may best be summarized in the words of the notes which Mallett set down after the interview.

  “Crabtree’s description of James,” wrote Mallett, “is vague, but agrees substantially with Harper’s. He seems to have seen remarkably little of his employer. His duties were to keep the rooms clean and to prepare breakfast, the only meal James ever had there. He wasn’t a particular man, Crabtree says, and couldn’t bear women about the house. Refused the suggestion that a charwoman should come in to clear it up. C. is an old seaman and could turn his hand to what was necessary. The usual routine was for him to arrive at seven-thirty in the morning and heat the shaving water, which he would leave outside the bedroom door. James always kept his door locked. C. has never been inside it till James was up and dressed.”

  Mallett paused in his writing at this point and underlined the last two sentences heavily. He continued:

  “James breakfasted at eight-thirty, and would leave the house between nine and half-past. He always carried a small bag or suitcase with him. (Compare Roach’s statement.) C. would finish his work in the morning and not see him again till next day. Sometimes James would say he would not be home that night, and C. would find the bedroom empty in the morning. He is vague as to how often this happened, but thinks it may have been two or three times a week. The one thing that sticks in his mind is that it was a soft job. James never left any personal belongings lying about. Never had any visitors, so far as he knows. C. was unable to recognize a photograph of Ballantine when shown to him.”

  Here the document ended, but it was not the end of the interview. Something else passed between the inspector and Crabtree, which did not appear on the note, but which remained clearly etched on Mallett’s retentive memory.

  When Crabtree had finished his account, given with a compelling air of sincerity, Mallett said:

  “There are just two more points I should like to know. Where did you stay at Spellsborough on Friday night?”

  Crabtree shook his head, and a look of distrust came into his eyes.

  “I can’t tell yer that,” he said. “There’s a widder down there, see? And I don’t want my old woman up ’ere to ’ear of it.”

  “You understand”, persisted Mallett, “that it may be important for you to be able to say where you were on Friday night?”

  Crabtree became sullen. “I won’t do it, and that’s that,” he muttered.

  Mallett did not press the point.

  “The only other question is: how did you get this job with Mr. James?”

  Crabtree answered this readily enough, though it was clear that his friendliness had vanished.

  “Mr. ’Arper asked me if I wanted it, and I took it.”

  “That’s the Mr. Harper in Inglewood, Browne’s?”

  “Just so.”

  “How did you know him?”

  “Know ’im?” repeated Crabtree. “Of course I knew ’im. Didn’t I teach ’im ’ow to ’andle a dinghy when ’is father was alive? Afore ’e lost all his money?”

  Mallett drew a bow at a venture.

  “Didn’t he lose his money in a bank smash?” he asked.

  “That’s right—Fanshawe’s Bank. Everything went then, ’ouse and ’orses—even the yacht. That was a fair tragedy, guv’nor,” he went on, his eyes glazing with memories. “The prettiest little racing schooner you ever saw. She was bought by a gent up on the Clyde, and he’s ruined ’er. Cut down ’er masts, raised ’er bulwarks—she’s nothing but a regular old family barge now. It’s enough to make a man cry. . . .”

  “Have you ever heard young Mr. Harper mention Ballantine’s name?” asked Mallett suddenly.

  Crabtree, his head still full of dreams, came back to the present with a start.

  “That——!” he exclaimed, “I should think I——”

  He checked himself abruptly, and then with a puerile attempt at deception went on:

  “What name did you say, sir? Ballantine? I’m sure I’ve never ’eard ’im mention that name in me life!”

  He repeated with emphasis: “No, sir! Not Mr. ’Arper! Never!”

  11

  MALLETT FEELS BETTER

  * * *

  * * *

  Wednesday, November 18th

  The long delayed meal, and the pint of bitter that went with it, did Mallett good. It was fortunate, he reflected, as he puffed at his cigarette, that he was gifted with a good digestion. No detective, in his experience, could do his work satisfactorily unless he were on good terms with his stomach. Men are most proud of the qualities for which they have to thank nature rather than their own efforts, and Mallett’s self-satisfaction remained with him as he took a brief post-prandial stroll in St. James’s Park. It was, for London, an ideal November day. Over the leafless trees the sky was a clear pale blue, and there was a nip in the air that was invigorating without being chilly. Mallett paced the walks, breathing deep gulps of the wintry air, exulting in his own well-being. But when one is faced with a question of paramount importance, it will intrude itself everywhere, and any subject, however far removed from it, will, by some trick of the brain, present itself as in some way connected with the overmastering preoccupation. So it was with the inspector now. He stopped in mid-stride, swung on his heel and stared absently across the lake.

  “Digestion, now!” he murmured to the unheeding pelicans. “What was it Harper said? A fattish man with a lean face, as though he had a bad digestion? Something like that. But Crabtree said he wasn’t particular. Crabtree’s cooking was pretty rough and ready, I should think, and he seems to have eaten his breakfasts all right. Odd!”

  He remained irresolute for a few moments. Then, throwing the butt end of his cigarette at a fat pigeon near his feet, he muttered: “Well, it’s a long shot, but it might be worth trying,” and walked out of the park to St. James’s Underground Station.

  Mr. Benjamin Browne, sole partner of Inglewood, Browne and Company, was decidedly annoyed that afternoon when Lewis abruptly entered his room and told him that Inspector Mallett wished to see him at once. His annoyance was not due to the fact that the visit interrupted any important work, for he was doing none. He was being disturbed in something far more intimate and important than any work—in the little nap which he was accustomed to take after lunch and to prolong, if possible, till tea-time. He objected still more to being caught in an undignified moment by Lewis, who had chosen to march in unannounced, to find his employer snoring in an arm-chair. Most of all, he objected to the grin of triumph on the young man’s face, as he murmured hypocritically: “Sorry to disturb you, sir.” In that instant, Lewis’s fate was sealed. He was an indispensable employee, he knew, but there should be no partnership for him in Inglewood, Browne & Co.

  Thus roughly awakened, Mr. Browne struggled to his feet.

  “Ask him to wait a moment,” he said.

  “He says he hasn’t long to spare,” replied Lewis, rejoicing in his principal’s discomfiture. “He would like to see you at once.”

  “Tell him to wait,” repeated Browne. “I can’t see him like this, can I?”

  He clawed on the greasy tail-coat which he had taken off before his slumbers, ran to a mirror in the corner of the room, resettled his dishevelled black tie, dabbed with a hairbrush at his almost entirely bald head, stroked into submission his wee
ping black moustache, and finally settled down behind his desk.

  “Now,” he said to Lewis, pulling some documents before him, “ask him to come in.”

  Mallett took in the office at a glance—the dusty files, the empty letter-tray, the crumpled arm-chair. “Not much business here,” he thought.

  “Good afternoon,” said Browne ponderously, stifling a yawn. “It’s this Daylesford Gardens business, I suppose? Can we assist you in any way?”

  “I hope so,” said Mallett. “I am sorry to have to disturb you——”

  “Not at all, not at all,” Browne assured him. “To tell you the truth, we were rather busy today”—he waved his hand in a manner that he hoped would be impressive—“but we are always ready to assist the cause of justice. I’m sure.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said the inspector, “I came here in the hope of seeing Mr. Harper. But I’m told he is out.”

  Browne shook his head sadly.

  “I’m afraid that young man takes his duties very lightly, Inspector,” he said. “I had to give him leave to go to the inquest this morning, of course, and Mr. Lewis too—very inconvenient to me, we have only a small staff here, as you see, but naturally the claims of the law must be met—and he has not returned. Simply absented himself. It’s very—galling, Inspector. That is the word—galling.” He breathed heavily and pulled at the long points of his moustache.

  “Tell me about Mr. Harper,” said Mallett confidentially. “Has he been with you long?”

  “Four or five years,” answered Browne. “And between you and me, sir, he has been a most unsatisfactory young man. Most unsatisfactory. It was the late Mr. Inglewood who engaged him, out of friendship for his father, I understood. And from respect to Mr. Inglewood’s memory, more than anything else, I kept him on. He was a fine gentleman, Mr. Inglewood,” went on the house agent, shaking his bald head dolefully. “He had a wonderful way with the better-class clients, if you follow me. It was a great loss to the firm when he was taken.”

  He stared at his desk, contemplating the ghosts of vanished better-class clients, till Mallett recalled him to his surroundings with: “And Mr. Harper?”

  “Ah, Mr. Harper, just so. His father was ruined, I understand, in that big bank failure some years ago—you would know the name, Inspector——”

  “Fanshawe?” put in Mallett.

  “Fanshawe—yes. And what made matters worse, Mr. Inglewood told me, Fanshawe was an old friend of the late Mr. Harper. And he ruined him, simply ruined him.”

  “That was very hard luck,” said the inspector.

  “Very. Oh, I was sorry for the young man, I assure you. That is why I kept him on here. Besides, there was always the chance that he might bring some of his better-class friends here as clients. But he didn’t. And hard luck doesn’t excuse his being so shockingly careless in his work as he’s been. This Daylesford Gardens matter, for instance. That has been a bad business for us, Inspector. Why, there’s three pound two and sixpence owing to Miss Penrose for dilapidations, and how we’re going to collect it from the tenant now, I don’t know.”

  “But you were telling me about Mr. Harper,” Mallett interrupted.

  “Exactly. Now, for instance, I had your Sergeant Frant round here yesterday asking to see the lease which Mr. James signed. Could Mr. Harper find it? He could not. He thought he’d put it somewhere, he said, but we searched high and low and it wasn’t to be found. Now I call that sort of thing galling, Inspector.”

  “Now we are on that subject,” said Mallett, “have you any letters or documents signed by Mr. James at all?”

  “Not one,” said Browne. “Except for the lease, there was only the cheque for the rent, and Mr. Harper took that himself and paid it in.”

  “But he returned the keys by post, didn’t he? Wasn’t there a letter with them?”

  “I’ll ask Mr. Lewis,” said Browne.

  Lewis was summoned from the outer office and the same question put to him.

  “There was a letter with the keys,” he answered. “I remember Harper told me so.”

  “Then wasn’t it filed in the usual way?” asked Browne.

  “It ought to have been, of course,” said Lewis, evidently pleased to be able to score off his fellow employee, “but it wasn’t. I looked for it myself, and when I asked Harper, he said he thought it didn’t matter, and he’d thrown it away.”

  Mr. Browne threw up his hands in despair.

  “There you are, you see!” he exclaimed. “That’s him all over! What can you do with a man like that? I believe he’s in love, Inspector, engaged or something, but it doesn’t excuse that sort of thing.”

  “I quite agree with you,” said Mallett. “Good afternoon, Mr. Browne, and let me know if Mr. Harper comes in later.”

  Mallett, on his journey back to Scotland Yard, had food for thought. It was extraordinary how successfully James had succeeded in hiding his traces. Outwardly, nothing would have been more open, ostentatious even, than his actions. To open an account at a bank, to engage a furnished house and a servant, to take a ticket to Paris through an agency—here was a series of actions which should have left behind a trail of clues to his identity—to his handwriting at least, from which his identity could have been established. Instead, there was nothing, or next to nothing, unless Frant’s second visit to the bank should prove more fruitful than his first. It was impossible even to lay hands on anybody who had ever spoken to him, except Crabtree and Harper. He frowned. Why should Harper have been so shockingly careless about the tenancy agreement and the letter? He would not willingly believe that this well-bred, good-looking young man could have had a hand in a callous crime, but if it were only coincidence, it was a very unfortunate one that the one person who had the opportunity of supplying valuable evidence should, knowingly or not, have been the means of destroying it.

  Well, thought Mallett, James was in Paris, it seemed certain. Probably the French police would manage to find him. But they had little information to work on, not even a proper description. Nobody seemed to have noticed anything outstanding about him except his beard, and that could be shaved off easily enough. Somewhere in London there must be people who could tell more about him. Somewhere there must be the evidence which would link him with Ballantine, which would explain how Ballantine came to go to his death in that quiet little backwater in Kensington. All the indications were to the effect that here was a carefully prepared crime. It could not have been contrived without leaving some traces of its machinery. And he, Mallett, if anybody, was the man to find them. He gave his moustache an upward twist and looked so fierce that the lady sitting opposite in the train, catching sight of him over her magazine, started nervously.

  On his desk at Scotland Yard he found a telegram from the Sûreté at Paris. Translated it ran: “James traced to Hotel Du Plessis. Search continues. Letter follows.”

  “I wish these French weren’t so damned economical,” said Mallett. “Now we shall have to wait till tomorrow for the details.”

  Sergeant Frant entered, in a state, of some excitement.

  “I’ve got what you want, sir,” he said.

  “Well?”

  Frant laid a letter before him. It was typewritten on the notepaper of the London and Imperial Estates Company, Ltd. It was addressed to the Branch Manager of the Southern Bank, and ran as follows:

  13th October, 19—

  Dear Sir,

  This is to introduce Mr. Colin James, a gentleman well known to us. We are confident that you will extend to him all facilities in your power.

  Yours faithfully,

  London & Imperial Estates Ltd.

  Henry Gaveston,

  Director.

  “Gaveston!” exclaimed Mallett. “Of all people! Lord Henry Gaveston!”

  “Well, even lords have some queer friends now and again,” remarked Frant. “But it’s what we want, isn’t it? Here’s the link between James and Ballantine.”

  “Yes, and the very last we expected,” answered t
he inspector. “Have you got into touch with him?”

  “His lordship is out of town, according to his valet,” said Frant. “He wouldn’t or couldn’t give the address.”

  “I don’t think that need trouble us,” Mallett replied. “A man like Lord Henry won’t go into hiding for long. We’ve got to have a chat with him, and the sooner the better!”

  Feeling much relieved, he hummed a little tune as he sat down at his desk. Things were beginning to move at last!

  12

  INQUEST ON A BUSINESS

  * * *

  * * *

  Thursday, November 19th

  The letter from Paris was in Mallett’s hands next morning. He read it through aloud, translating literally as he went, for the benefit of Frant. The writer acknowledged the receipt of the enquiries of his respected colleague and in reply hastened to submit for his consideration and information the matters following, namely: that immediately upon receipt of the advice and enquiries aforesaid he, the undersigned, had personally caused an investigation to be made at the Hotel Du Plessis, Ave. Magenta, Paris, 9e., and submitted to an interrogation strict and detailed the manager and staff of the hotel; that from such interrogation and examination of the relevant correspondence it was made manifest that the suspect James had veritably descended at the said hotel at 5.50 hours or thereabouts on Saturday and there lodged in a room previously reserved for him by the Agence Brook (room No. 323, on the third floor, with private bathroom, at a tariff of francs 65). The undersigned pointed out that such behaviour on the part of the suspect James was in conformity with his having fulfilled his expressed intention of making the crossing by the route Newhaven-Dieppe, precisely as the distinguished information of his colleague had suggested. Unhappily, by an oversight possibly unintentional but none the less criminal, one had not fulfilled the requisite formalities of the law and the said James had ascended to his room without signing the form provided for the surveillance of foreign voyagers in France. For this contravention one would rigorously pursue the hotel proprietors before the Correctional Tribunal of the Department of the Seine.