Tenant for Death

by Cyril Hare

  “I think it was just this horrible inquest business he came about. He had been sent to verify your address and so on, he said. I told him all about us and he took particulars and seemed quite satisfied. That’s all. I thought you would like to know.”

  “Oh, well, if that’s all. . . . Look here, Mother, if by any chance you have anybody—anybody, police or not—coming round here again while I’m away—not that I suppose you will, for a moment, but one never can tell—just keep what I told you under your hat, do you mind? About Africa, I mean, and Susan and all the rest of it. No point in having them poking into our affairs, is there?”

  “No, of course not, darling. I don’t know anything really myself, so I can’t say anything, can I?”

  He laughed. “That’s the spirit. Mum. And mum’s the word!”

  He was gone. Mrs. Harper, with a sigh, began to tidy the chaos of her son’s room. She did not in the least understand what Frank had told her. She did not believe all his grandiose talk about Africa and a cottage in the country. But then for years now she had lived in a dim twilight of existence, where the only reality was the ever-present necessity of making both ends meet, the only illumination the love and pride which she felt for her son. Dimly she was aware that there had been a time when life went easily and comfortably, when there was leisure to think and to enjoy, and when the prices of things in the shops were a matter of casual interest. It did not seem real now, any more than Frank’s sudden optimism about the future seemed real. It only unsettled one to hope for impossibilities. But one thing at least was real—the fact that her moody, discontented son was for some reason happy and hopeful once more. And without understanding, she basked in the rays of his cheerfulness. After all, they had been ruined in the past for reasons which had always remained somewhat of a mystery to her. Why should they not regain their fortunes in an equally inexplicable way? And if for some cause it was the price of fortune to keep it a close secret—well, she reflected, one thing an old woman could do was to keep her own counsel.

  She stopped in her work, her contentment suddenly clouded over. Frank had gone away with an odd pair of socks!

  14

  LORD HENRY AND LORD BERNARD

  * * *

  * * *

  Thursday, November 19th

  An electric train carried Mallett smoothly Brighton-wards, together with a crowd of homing stockbrokers. The chatter of his neighbours in the carriage seemed to be equally divided between golf and the Ballantine affair—the latter being viewed exclusively from the financial standpoint. He was agreeably surprised to learn from their talk that each of them had, by superhuman foresight, succeeded in “getting out” of the Twelve Apostles at the very top of the market. He also learned several novel items of information—amongst others that the Commissioner of Police had “dropped a packet” on London Imperials and therefore was making no particular efforts to trace the financier’s murderer. An elderly man in the corner was bold enough to hint his doubts of the accuracy of the last statement, but was instantly suppressed.

  “Fact!” said the narrator, a stout young man with an aggressive voice. “Chap I knew had it direct from a pal of his who’s in Scotland Yard.”

  This was too much for Mallett’s gravity, and he hastily took up an evening paper to hide his smiles. Here he found that although now three days old, the “Mystery of Daylesford Gardens” still retained enough vitality to keep itself in the headlines, though fresh sensations had crowded it off the front page. He read with interest of an entirely mythical “police dash” to Birmingham, from which important results were understood to have been obtained; and had just embarked on an article by the City Editor on the probable effects of the London and Imperial liquidation which puzzled his unmathematical brains a good deal more even than Renshaw’s accountants had done, when a name uttered by the same loud-voiced man caught his ear and riveted his attention.

  “Bernie Gaveston is on the train,” he said. “I saw him get into the next carriage.”

  “Who?” asked someone.

  “Bernie—Lord Bernard Gaveston. You know who I mean?”

  “Oh! Yes, of course,” was the answer. Then, respectfully: “Do you know him?”

  “Rather! Matter of fact, he was staying at Gleneagles the same time as we were last year. I used to see him nearly every day.”

  “You never mentioned it before,” said the elderly man from his corner.

  “Well, of course, I didn’t see much of him—not to speak to, I mean. He had his own crowd there with him. But I was always running into him, in the bar and so on. I thought he seemed a nice sort of chap. Funny thing is, I haven’t set eyes on him since, and now here he is in the next carriage. Shows what a small place the world is, doesn’t it?”

  Mallett chuckled quietly behind his paper. The idea of this underbred little man claiming acquaintance with the famous Lord Bernard Gaveston amused him hugely. For Lord Bernard was, as every reader of the illustrated weeklies knew, a celebrity of the first order. It was difficult to know exactly why. He had never done anything particularly startling—never gone into Parliament or, like his unlucky brother, into the City. He had been content to remain an ornament to Society, and done it very well. He had written a couple of not very successful plays and composed some not very distinguished music. But his clothes were the despair and admiration of every young man who aspired to be well dressed, his appearance at a new restaurant or night-club was the guarantee of its success, his photograph was almost as familiar to the public as that of the most boomed débutante—in a word he was News, with a capital N, and there were very few young men of whom that could be said.

  At the same time, the inspector was not a little annoyed at Lord Bernard’s appearance on the train. Obviously it was connected in some way with Lord Henry’s presence in Brighton. There was not the smallest reason to suppose that he had anything to do with his brother’s business adventures, but the inspector had come down to interview one man, and he was not best pleased to find that he might have to do with two. So far as Lord Henry was concerned, he thought he knew fairly well what to expect. He was the stupid type of titled man, with a fair record of military service behind him, who would appeal to one such as Ballantine as likely to give a good appearance to a list of directors. Nobody would expect him to be concerned in his chairman’s fraudulent schemes or even to have the brains to understand them, and the only mystery was how it came about that of all the people connected with Ballantine he alone appeared to provide the link between him and Colin James. That mystery it was Mallett’s present business to clear up and if it came to a contest of wits he was fairly confident of the issue. But Lord Bernard—he shrugged his broad shoulders—was a different matter. He was without doubt, in his own way, a clever man. Lord Henry had read the account of the inquest in the papers, no doubt, and sent for his brother to assist and advise him. Under the influence of that shrewd man of the world, would he refuse to give any information? And what would Mallett’s remedy be if he did? He put down his paper and frowned out of the window at the darkened sky.

  * * *

  Whatever hopes the inspector may have had of reaching the Riviera Hotel before Lord Bernard and so of securing at least part of his interview without interference, were quickly disappointed. As he alighted on the station platform almost the first person he saw was Lord Bernard, being greeted by an obsequious chauffeur. Evidently Lord Henry was expecting his brother’s arrival. Before Mallett’s elderly taxi could clear the station, it was passed by a low open car of venomously speedy design, with Lord Bernard at the wheel, the chauffeur sitting beside him. “Not the sort of car I should have expected Lord Henry to own,” said Mallett to himself. “I thought he was a steady-going sort of stupid.”

  The rear light of the car twinkled for a moment among the traffic ahead and was lost to view, and the inspector resigned himself to a comparatively slow journey to the hotel. The tall mauve lamps of Brighton front slid by in leisurely procession as the asthmatic vehicle chugged along.
At last a violent grinding of brakes told him that he had arrived. Lord Bernard, he calculated, as he paid his fare, had about five minutes’ start of him. Much harm could be done in five minutes. He cursed Renshaw for having been the unconscious cause of his delay. Had it not been for him, Lord Henry could have been interviewed, and he, Mallett, back in London, before Lord Bernard had even started. So absorbed was he in these reflections that he miscounted his change and only the driver’s surprised “Thank you, sir!” revealed to him that he had grossly overtipped the man.

  The mistake aggravated Mallett’s sense of grievance with the world. Everything seemed to be going wrong with him. He did not grudge the driver an unearned shilling, but the fact that he, the most careful of men, should have made such a stupid blunder, annoyed him intensely. It was only by reminding himself that he might well be within a few moments of the most important discovery since he had begun his investigations, that he was able to regain his sense of proportion.

  “Is Lord Henry Gaveston in the hotel?” Mallett asked the sleek and supercilious reception clerk.

  “Yes, he is,” admitted the functionary. His eyes travelled up and down the inspector’s burly form and an expression of discomfort crept into his smooth features. “But I don’t know whether he can see you. You are not from the Press, by any chance?”

  “No. Scotland Yard,” said Mallett bluntly.

  The clerk’s pained look was that of a prude in whose hearing an obscenity had been blurted out. He glanced involuntarily round the brilliantly lighted, over-decorated hall, at the monumental back of the gorgeous commissionaire outside, as though to say: “Not here! Not in the Riviera, of all places!” But he pulled himself together like a man, and with a fine show of sang-froid murmured: “In that case, I’ll have him paged.”

  A small uniformed boy, uttering the high-pitched wail peculiar to his class, was duly sent out on his tour of the Smoking Room, Winter Garden, Drawing-Room and Ye Olde Tudor Lounge. Duly he returned, announcing with evident relish: “No reply, sir!” whereupon Mallett, turning on his heel, found himself looking directly into a small recess bounded by a cocktail bar. In front of the bar was a little table, and at the table, not ten yards away, sat Lord Henry and his brother.

  Mallett indicated the bar with his finger. “Did you try in there?” he asked the page.

  “Oh, no, sir!” came the instant reply. “The gentlemen in there, they never likes to be disturbed.”

  “Smart lad,” said Mallett, too amused to be annoyed. “Perhaps you’ll have a hotel of your own some day.”

  Leaving the page scarlet with pleasure at what he dimly apprehended to be a compliment, the inspector strode across the intervening space and bore down upon the two men.

  There was a strong family resemblance between the two brothers. They each had the same rather prominent, well-cut nose, the same arched eyebrows over light grey eyes, the same delicately rounded chin. But while Lord Bernard’s eyes were clear and vivacious, Lord Henry’s were pale and watery. His raised eyebrows gave an impression of peevish surprise at what the world had to show him, in contrast to his brother’s alert look of amused inquisitiveness. The elder of the two by a few years only, he was already beginning to go bald, and his face to sag before the onset of middle age. Lord Bernard, on the other hand, with his thick brown hair and clear complexion, might have stood model for an advertisement of anybody’s patent medicine.

  As Mallett drew near, Lord Henry was setting down an empty tumbler with the melancholy air of a man who was conscious that the contents had done him little good. Lord Bernard was contemplating a cocktail in his hand and appeared to be addressing it, rather than his brother, in low and soothing tones. Both looked up as the inspector approached.

  “Lord Henry Gaveston?” said Mallett.

  Lord Henry, characteristically, turned towards his brother for help. The latter appraised Mallett in a swift glance.

  “You’re a detective, I take it,” he said.

  Mallett nodded. Lord Bernard rose quickly, laid his hand lightly on his senior’s shoulder and said:

  “I suggest, old man, that another whisky and soda would do you no harm at this moment.”

  Lord Henry said nothing, but dumbly relinquished the tumbler he was still clutching, and his brother bore it off to the bar.

  Mallett was agreeably surprised that he should have been left alone with his man for a few moments even. He knew from experience the importance of a suspect’s first reaction when confronted with a damning piece of evidence and he determined to lose no time. Without further preamble he drew from his pocket the letter to the bank, unfolded it, and handed it across the table.

  “I want to ask you a few questions about this,” he said.

  Lord Henry, his hands shaking visibly, stared at the document for a moment. Then he fumbled in his pockets, produced an old-fashioned pair of pince-nez, and adjusted them with difficulty on his nose. With this assistance he slowly read the letter through, forming the words with his mouth as he went. Finally he said, in obviously genuine bewilderment:

  “But I don’t understand. What is all this about?”

  “That is exactly what I have come to ask you,” retorted Mallett in some irritation. In the background he could see Lord Bernard approaching, a brimming glass in his hand. “Is that your signature, or is it not?”

  “Oh, certainly it’s mine all right,” returned Lord Henry dolefully. “No doubt about that. The office paper, too. But who is Mr. Colin James? Never heard of the feller in my life.”

  “Colin James”, said Mallett impressively, “is suspected of the murder of Lionel Ballantine.”

  “Here’s your drink, Harry,” said Lord Bernard, depositing a whisky and soda on the table and dropping into a chair. “Ballantine’s murder, eh? A nasty business. You don’t know anything about it, do you, old man?” He turned to Mallett. “You know, I thought you had come to bother Harry about this London and Imperial Estates business,” he confided.

  “I am enquiring into the death of Lionel Ballantine,” said the inspector stolidly, “and I am here to ask Lord Henry how he came to sign a letter recommending Mr. Colin James——”

  “James!” put in Lord Bernard. “Of course, yes, the man in whose house Ballantine was killed! You saw all about it in the accounts of the inquest, didn’t you, Harry?”

  Lord Henry shook his head. “I haven’t the heart to read the papers nowadays,” he said gloomily.

  Lord Bernard took the letter and scanned it rapidly.

  “But look here,” he said, “you must remember something about it, surely?”

  “Not a thing, I tell you,” repeated Lord Henry. “Not a thing. I’ve signed so many things one way and another. . . .” His voice trailed off despairingly.

  “But the date,” persisted Lord Bernard. “October the thirteenth. What were you doing then?”

  Lord Henry stared stupidly in front of him for a moment. Mallett said nothing. Since, contrary to his expectations, Lord Bernard seemed disposed to be a help rather than a hindrance, he was well content to let him do his work for him. Besides, it seemed more likely that Lord Henry would respond to his brother’s methods than to any enquiries from a stranger. He waited therefore, while Ballantine’s late colleague strove painfully to search his cloudy memory.

  “Have a drink,” suggested Lord Bernard.

  Lord Henry obediently took a deep draught from the glass before him. Some colour came into his grey cheeks, and a look almost of intelligence into his eyes.

  “I might have it down in my book,” he said at last with the air of one who makes a great discovery.

  He pulled from his pocket a small engagement book, and fluttered the leaves.

  “Thirteenth—no, there’s nothing there,” he said. “Oh—I’m sorry—I was looking at September. October, now. . . . Here we are. Oh, yes, of course. Board meeting.”

  “A board meeting?” said Mallett. “Of the London and Imperial Estates Company?”

  “Yes—it says so here.” />
  “You signed this letter at a board meeting?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “But why? Who asked you to?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t expect anybody asked me to. There’d be a lot of papers in front of me, cheques and letters and so on, and I’d just sign along the dotted line.”

  “Without reading what you signed?”

  “There wasn’t time you know,” answered Lord Henry. “Ballantine was generally in a hurry to get the business through. Besides I shouldn’t have understood them if I had. So we just signed—the other directors and myself. ‘Theirs not to reason why’, you know.”

  “Like a society beauty signing a soap advertisement,” murmured Lord Bernard.

  “Oh, shut up!” said his wretched brother. “It’s easy enough to talk like that now, but it seemed all right at the time.” He turned to Mallett. “So there it is, you see,” he groaned. “I know no more who this James is than the man in the moon.”

  But Mallett had not finished yet.

  “Tell me,” he said, “what was the usual procedure at your board meetings? You say you signed what was in front of you. How did it get there?”

  “The stuff was generally just dealt round by that secretary fellow, Du Pine,” was the reply. “What used to happen as a rule was this: we’d all go into the board room and sit round a long table, Ballantine at the top with a wad of papers in front of him, and Du Pine at his elbow, with another wad. Well, we’d have the minutes of the last meeting—you know the sort of thing—and then there’d be a lot of resolutions. Ballantine would propose something, Hartigan usually seconded, and we’d all say ‘Aye’. There was hardly ever any discussion that I can remember. Du Pine would note it all down in his book as it went along. Then Ballantine and Du Pine generally had a little quiet conference at the head of the table, while the rest of us took a breather for a smoke and a chat, and then the papers and things to be signed would all come round. Du Pine would put down a bunch of half a dozen or so in front of each of us, according to how much business there was to be done, and we all signed our names. Then a box of cigars would come down the table, we’d each take one, and that was that. As soon as we’d lighted up, we trickled off, leaving those two to clear up the mess. Mind you,” he added, “I don’t swear that that was what happened this particular time, but it was what always did happen, so I expect it probably did.”