“I wonder how he will take the news of Mrs. Bennington’s telegram.”
“He took it quite badly. There is a lot at stake for him,” said Haven.
“You informed him?”
“Yes, when I saw him at lunch time.”
“You should not have done so.” Then Poiret shrugged. “Who knows? Within a few minutes we may have the happy news for him.”
The two men took the escalator to Haven’s suite. Poiret looked through the window. The window overlooked the main entrance to the hotel and the hills in the distance.
“Put the banknotes on the table,” Poiret said. “They will persuade her to tell to us all that she has to tell.” He looked around the room and rearranged the chairs. “We will not embarrass her by sitting around the table like the courtroom. You will sit in that arm-chair.”
Haven took his seat, crossed his knees, and joined the tips of his fingers.
“Non, Haven! Not too judicial!” said Poiret; “Watch Poiret and do it too.” Poiret sat down in the chair which he had placed for himself as Haven watched him intently. But in a second he was back at the window looking out at the entrance. He didn’t move for a long time.
“Elle arrive! It comes, the bus!” he said in a quick, feverish whisper. Then, “Mon Dieu!” With a wild and surprised cry, he staggered back into the room. His face was white as wax, his eyes full of horror, his mouth open.
“What’s the matter?” cried Haven, jumping to his feet.
“They are lifting her out! She does not move! They are lifting her out!”
For a moment he stared into Haven’s face—paralysed. Then he ran out the door and down the stairs. Haven followed him.
There was confusion at the entrance of the hotel. Men were running, voices were crying questions. They knew the truth before they saw the body. The bus had driven up to the hotel from the station; in the bus was an unknown woman stabbed through the heart.
“Miserable-moi! We should have picked her up ourselves,” Poiret repeated and repeated it again and again. He was off balance.
On the floor lay Rosemary Bennington; the manager of the hotel stood next to her; a doctor was on his knees working on her. The weapon lay on the floor next to her. It was an ordinary skewer with a wooden handle at one end and a sharp point at the other.
“Did she suffer?” Poiret asked in a low voice.
“No; death must’ve been instantaneous,” said the doctor.
“I am glad of that,” said Poiret.
The driver of the cab was standing in the doorway. Poiret’s demeanor changed immediately. “What have you to say?” Poiret asked him. He was an old, red-faced, heavyset man, like a thousand drivers of buses. “What have I to say, Sir?” he grumbled in a husky voice. “I pick up the poor woman at the station, I arrive at the hotel, and I find her dead.”
“Now, to answer Poiret! Do you tell to Poiret that this woman was murdered in your bus and that you knew nothing about it?”
“What should I know? I keep my eyes on the road.”
“Think! Did you see anything? Anybody?”
“The bus was full of young people singing and moving about, happy to spend a few days at the beach. Passengers got in and passengers got out.”
Poiret shook his head, inwardly steaming with anger. “There is nothing we can do here,” said Poiret to Haven. They went back to Haven’s suite.
“It is terrible,” Poiret said. “The poor woman! It was Poiret who brought her to Torquay. It was through his carelessness.”
“But who’d have thought—?” Haven started.
“Poiret, he should have thought,” said Poiret “Miserable-moi! It is not merely the death of this poor woman which troubles Poiret. We have lost the evidence which she was going to bring to us. She had something to tell to us about Mademoiselle Rosette which now we shall never hear.” He buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud.
There was a knock on the door. A bellhop handed the day’s post to Haven, who rewarded him with a coin. Haven put the letters on the table in front of Poiret. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, old chap.” He consoled his friend.
Poiret lifted his head up, looked down at the letters and uttered a cry. “Regarde! The big envelope,” he said, his voice shaking like his hand. “It has the Southampton post office mark.”
Haven sprang up and tore open the envelope. There was a long letter enclosed in a handwriting unknown to him. He read aloud the first lines of the letter: “I write what I saw and post it tonight, so nobody can claim the reward before me. I will come over tomorrow for the money.” A low cry from Poiret interrupted the words. “The signature, mon cher Haven! Quick!”
Haven turned to the end of the letter. “Rosemary Bennington.”
Poiret sprang up. “She speaks, then! After all she speaks!” he whispered in a voice of awe. He took the letter unceremoniously from Haven’s hand and seated himself at the table. Over his shoulder Captain Haven, too, read Rosemary Bennington’s last words.
“The street is close to the sea-side. It is quite respectable, you understand, Sir, with a hotel at the end of it, and really some very good houses. But I do not wish to deceive you about the social position of myself or my husband. Our house is on the wrong side of the street—definitely—yes. It is a small house, and we do not see the water from any of the windows, because of the better houses opposite. Mister Bennington, my husband, who was a clerk in one of the great banks in Southampton, broke down in health in the spring, and for the last three months has been compelled to keep indoors. Of course, money has not been plentiful. So, as I am in the house most of the day, I find what amusement I can in watching the doings of my neighbours. You will not blame me.
“A month ago the house almost directly opposite to us was taken furnished for the summer by a widow, but during the last fortnight a young gentleman has come several times in the afternoon to see her, and it is said in the street that he is going to marry her. But I cannot believe it myself. The gentleman is a young man of perhaps thirty, with smooth, black hair. He wears a moustache, a little black moustache, and is altogether refined-looking.”
So far, Captain Haven read in silence. Then he broke out. “Good Grief. We have him! The man with the little black moustache. It was he who drove the car!”
Poiret did not move and continued reading.
“She is five or six years older, I should think—a tall woman, with red hair and a bold sort of coarse beauty. Her name is Lady Evelyn Marysville.”
Poiret looked up with a jolt. “So the name, it was Evelyn after all,” he whispered.
“Yes,” said Haven. “Harriette Carter spoke the truth.” Poiret nodded with a strange smile on his lips. Haven continued, “But she said Evelyn’s hair was black.”
“Yes, there she lied,” said Poiret drily, and his eyes dropped down to the paper.
“The gentleman and Milady cannot be of the same class. If these two get married, I do not think they will be happy.”
Poiret stood up. “Mon Dieu! The great intellect of Poiret, it works on facts. Not the gossip of an English housewife.” He gave the letter to Haven. “Please to read, mon ami.”
Haven read aloud, “Besides Lady Marisville there is a servant, a man, Morgan, who drives the car when it is wanted—a respectable man. He sleeps in the house at night, although the garage is at the end of the street and has a room above it. That is the household of Lady Marysville.”
Haven took a deep breath and continued reading.
“At three o’clock on Tuesday afternoon Milady was driven away in the car, and I did not see it return all that evening. I went to bed at eleven, but in the night Mister Bennington was restless, and I rose to get him some medicine. While I was searching for it on the table in the middle of the room I heard the sound of car wheels in the silent street. I went to the window, and, raising a corner of the curtains, looked out. Mister Bennington called to me fretfully from the bed to know why I did not get him what he wanted. Sick men can be quite fretful, always c
omplaining if just for a minute one distracts oneself by looking out of the window. Yet how right I was to raise the curtain and look out of the window! For if I had obeyed my husband I might have lost one hundred Pounds. And one hundred Pounds are not to be sneezed at by a poor woman, whose husband is confined to his bed.
“I saw the car stop at Lady Marysville’s house. As soon as the door of the house was opened by Morgan, the driver, the door of the car opened too. The young man with the moustache stepped out from behind the wheel and Lady Marysville stepped out on the passenger side. They opened the door to the back seat and helped a young lady step out. The train of her dress caught in the door, and Evelyn turned around, bent down, freed it with her hand, and held it up off the ground. There is a street light close by the door of Lady Marysville’s house. I saw her face under the big green hat. It was very pretty and young, and the hair was fair.” Haven looked at Poiret. “Rosette Dereham!” he cried.
“Continue, mon ami,” said Poiret impatiently.
“She wore a white coat, but it was open in front and showed her evening dress of pale green. So when I saw your advertisement I was certain that this was the young lady for whom you are searching.” Haven glanced at Poiret again. “How do we know Mrs. Bennington isn’t making this all up?” asked Haven.
“Because Mrs. Bennington, she is dead.”
Captain Haven nodded thoughtfully. “Right. Quite right.” He continued reading.
“Mister Bennington was so fretful that I dropped the curtain and gave him his cooling drink. His watch was on the table at the bedside, and I saw that it was five minutes to three. I will send you a telegram tomorrow, as soon as I am sure at what hour I can leave my husband. Accept, Sir, I beg you, my most distinguished salutations. “ROSEMARY BENNINGTON.”
Poiret did not move from his place at the window. But to Haven the whole story was now clear. There was nothing to be done except to arrest Rosette and her accomplices at once.
Poiret said, “A poor woman murdered like a sheep. No, that Poiret cannot forgive.” He looked at his pocket watch. “Let us go.”
They descended into the hall. The body of Rosemary Bennington had been removed to the mortuary of the town. The life of the hotel had resumed its course. They stepped into Haven’s car and drove away.
“We must go first to Inspector Edgar’s office. The poor man, he will be at his wits’ end to know, who was Mrs. Bennington and what has brought her to Torquay. Besides, Poiret, he wishes to send the message over the telephone.”
Poiret spent a quarter of an hour with the inspector. As he came out of the inspector’s office he looked at his watch. “Come, mon ami, let us go!”
“Where to?” asked Haven.
“Where to?” cried Poiret. “Why, but of course, to Southampton.”
“Inspector Watkins, he is in Southampton instructing the local police in the investigative methods tres modern. Poiret has telephoned him to make the arrangements,” said Poiret, as Haven’s sports car sped out of Torquay along the road to Exeter. “He will have Lady Evelyn Marysville watched.”
Though he spoke confidently Haven heard a tone of anxiety in his voice, and he sat forward in his chair, as though he were already straining his eyes to see Southampton. Then Haven heard the reason of the anxiety.
“Mon estomac,” squealed Poiret.
Haven was a trifle disappointed. They were on a great journey to Southampton. They were going to arrest Rosette Dereham and her accomplices. And Poiret had a bout of motion sickness.
Poiret must’ve seen the disappointment in Haven’s face. “But, mon cher ami, why?” pleaded Poiret. “Poiret, his body does not agree with anything that moves faster than his great intellect.” He tapped his temple. “Only people, who do not think find the high speeds agreeable.”
After they passed Exeter, they arrived at the road block. At the far end of it, the car was stopped. A question, a hurried glance into the boot of the car, and the officers of the road block waved them through.
“You see how thorough the search, it is?” said Poiret. With a jerk the car moved on. The jerk threw Poiret against Captain Haven. He frowned and looked at Haven’s pocket. “Revolver?” Poiret asked. Captain Haven showed him the loaded revolver.
“There will be danger, mon ami,” Poiret said, nodding gravely, “Of that you can be sure.”
They reached Southampton at dusk. They drove straight to a restaurant named “Customs House” by the side of the sea and went to the balcony on the first floor. Inspector Watkins was waiting for them.
“Mon ami, Inspector Watkins,” said Poiret, shaking his hand with enthusiasm. He looked around. There were only two couples dining in the restaurant. “What news?” Poiret asked.
“None,” said Inspector Watkins. “Nobody has come out of the house, nobody has gone in.”
“Good,” said Poiret. “We will dine then.” He called to the waiter and ordered dinner explaining meticulously how every dish should be prepared for him.
They dined while the dusk deepened. Captain Haven and Inspector Watkins were waiting uneasily.
“Eat!” Poiret cried— “Eat, mes amis. The chef here is superb. French, it has to be.”
Inspector Watkins took another dig at his food and said: “So Lady Charingbridge’s jewels were, after all, never stolen?” Poiret let slip his knife and fork. They fell on the table. “You know that? How did you know it?”
“It was in this evening’s paper. They were found under the floor of the bedroom.” Inspector Watkins was alarmed by the look on his friend’s face. “Does it matter, Poiret?” he asked.
Poiret rose up abruptly. “We must go,” Poiret whispered hoarsely. “Here are life and death in the balance.”
“I didn’t leak the news,” said Captain Haven eagerly. He had no idea what Poiret meant by his words; but he realised that the sooner he exculpated himself from the charge the better.
“Of course it was not you,” said Poiret. “Mon Dieu, that’s clever!” he muttered savagely. “There is an intellect, which gets ahead of Poiret at every turn. You see, Inspector Watkins, Poiret, he takes careful pains to let it be known, that no message can be sent without immediate detection and arrest, and here is the message sent by the one channel he never thought to guard against and stop. Look!” Poiret pointed at a paperboy waving the evening paper in the air.
Poiret put money on the table and stood up. Just as he had paid the light of a match flared up under the trees. “The signal!” said Inspector Watkins.
The three men descended the stairs and crossed the road. Under the trees a fourth man joined them—he who had lit his pipe. “The driver, Morgan,” he whispered, “just came home.”
“Follow me,” said Inspector Watkins. Followed by the others, he walked briskly down to a nearby landing-stage. A motorboat was waiting. There was a sergeant in uniform on board. The boat backed away from the landing-stage and, turning, sped swiftly outwards from Southampton. Soon the cool darkness enveloped them.
“If only we are in time!” said Poiret, catching his breath.
“Yes,” answered Inspector Watkins; and in both their voices there was a strange tone of gravity.
After a few minutes Inspector Watkins pointed to the shore. The boat reduced its speed and turned to the shore. Watkins touched Poiret on the shoulder and pointed to a house in a row of houses. All the windows except two on the first floor were in absolute darkness, and over those two the wooden shutters were closed. But in the shutters there were diamond-shaped holes, and from these holes two yellow beams of light streamed out.
“The front of the house, it is guarded?” asked Poiret anxiously.
“Yes,” replied Inspector Watkins.
Haven shivered with excitement. He took out his revolver. Cautiously the men disembarked and crept up the bank and moved carefully towards the house. When a bush rustled or a tree whispered in the light wind, Haven’s heart jumped to his throat. He thought, “If only my comrades could be here now!” The old army brotherhood rang loud
in his chest. “Poor fellows, they were left in Flanders fields. I will do them proud.”
Inspector Watkins stopped. They had reached the door. Watkins looked through the window and saw no one. He tried the door handle. It gave way. They crept into the hall. They reached the foot of a flight of stairs without seeing anybody, and cautiously walked up the stairs. A clock struck half-past ten. Now they heard voices and light shining beneath one of the doors. Inspector Watkins pointed at it and stuck up three fingers. Silently he counted down. At zero he kicked in the door. A man and a woman were tying a rope around a rolled up carpet.
“Police,” screamed Watkins.
The red-haired woman gave up immediately. The man ran for the door and had to be subdued.
“Quick, Haven!” said Poiret. He took out a pocket knife and began to cut the ropes around the carpet. It opened and a young blond woman, dressed in a green dress with a cloth in her mouth and ropes around her feet and hands rolled out.
Haven was flabbergasted. Then sprang into action and helped Poiret free the woman. The first words from her mouth were, “They were going to drown me.” She flung her arms around Poiret and cried uncontrollably.
“You are safe, Mademoiselle Rosette,” Poiret said.
Captain Haven’s brain whirled. Here was the woman whom they had come to arrest, who had helped rob and murder her generous employer. Who had made a run for it. And here she was lying in her fine and delicate attire a captive at the mercy of the very people, who were her accomplices. He did not understand. He hid his emotions by looking around the room. There was a bed and on a table, close by the door, lay a big green hat with a brown ostrich feather, and a white cloak. Haven was not the only one who was confused by the situation.
Inspector Watkins said, “Who do I take and who do I leave, Poiret?” He and his men had by now handcuffed the man and the unusually tall red-headed woman and found Lady Charingbridge’s pearl necklace, bracelets and rings in a dresser.
Poiret pointed at the man, “Please to take Morgan, the driver.” He pointed at the woman, “And to take Evelyn Marysville.” He looked at the young woman still holding him tight. “Haven and Poiret will take the young lady with us to Torquay. You will follow with them tomorrow and Poiret, he will explain all.”
The Murder in Torquay (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 9) Page 7
