Ellery Queen's Secrets of Mystery Anthology 2

by Ellery Queen

  I found an open envelope containing a strip of film together with some enlargements from the negatives. Those photographs were positively indecent—I mean, really indecent, for they showed a girl, a grown girl, with no clothes on whatsoever. I did not need telling they were something to do with this blackmailer Fowler. They just showed what sort of a mind he had! The world was well rid of him, and this beauty who had tried to shoot me.

  In an agony of embarrassment I slipped those vile things into my pocket to be examined later, opened the other hatch, and tipped him into the fast-flowing water. Then I shut down everything, wiped my face on my handkerchief, and walked out into the alley.

  Two plainclothes men were waiting for me outside.

  I was just so astonished I could not say a word. They said they wished to question me about the shooting of Edward Fowler, and before I knew what was what, before I could even telephone Mother, they were taking me away in a police car.

  Everyone says the police aren’t what they were. This time, they really have made a big mistake! But I have got a solicitor coming to sort things out for me, and at least I was able to send a message to Mother telling her that I was fine and not to keep lunch waiting for me.

  I didn’t tell them a thing—I mean, I can still keep my wits about me. I keep on saying I never heard of any Edward Fowler, and that’s all I say.

  Of course, the little pistol and those revolting photographs are going to be rather difficult to explain.

  But I’m innocent—absolutely innocent! You can’t tell me otherwise.

  “Q”

  Vincent McConnor

  Just Like Inspector Maigret

  Meet a new armchair detective—George Drayton, 73 years old, retired book publisher, devotee of mystery stories—as he becomes involved in his “first case.” Old George Drayton’s “armchair” is his favorite morning-bench or afternoon-bench in the private park of Knightswood Square; and in following George’s park-bench private-eyeing you will get an intimate glimpse of an old (and old-fashioned) Square in the heart of London—in a story charmingly and lovingly told…

  Detective: GEORGE DRAYTON

  The green park in the heart of London, to the passing eye, had not changed in half a century. But to George Drayton, born 73 years ago in a vast bedroom overlooking Knightswood Square, it had been altered in every possible way. Nothing was as it used to be.

  He was the second person to enter the Square, fog or shine, every morning. Purdy, the gardener, was always the first, and Mrs. Heatherington the third. Actually she was fourth because her ancient Pekinese, Kwong Kwok, darted through the gate ahead of his mistress. That was how it had been for more than 30 years. Except that the gardener was never there on Sundays or bank holidays. On those days George Drayton was the first.

  Every resident of the long rows of identical mansions surrounding Knights wood Square possessed a key which unlocked all the gates in the shoulder-high iron fence. A discreet sign near each gate warned that this was a private park.

  George Drayton sniffed the morning air as he stepped out under the white-pillared portico and let the massive front door close itself behind him. He stood for a moment on the broad top step, eyes darting across the sunny Square in search of Purdy. A blue veil of smoke curled at the far northern corner. The gardener would be burning yesterday’s accumulation of twigs and dead flowers. He daily raked every path and walk, picked up each fallen leaf and broken branch. Before dusk they were always neatly piled for burning the following morning.

  The sun had climbed above the chimneys on the opposite side of the Square, dropping a curtain of haze across the elegant Regency facades so that all he could see was a blur of white columns against shadowed brick. It was going to be a pleasant August day. He would sit on his morning-bench under the protecting branches of the oak tree. There were several favorite benches he occupied, depending upon time of year and weather, but never the same bench, morning and afternoon.

  George started down the shallow marble steps to the sidewalk and was careful not to drop his books or leather cushion. He carried three books into the park every morning. Today there was a new novel from his own publishing house and two detective novels.

  “Mornings sir.” Fitch, the caretaker, squinted up the basement steps where he was polishing the brass hand-rail. “Another fine day, sir.”

  “Splendid.” He kept walking or Fitch would come charging up the steps for a chat that could delay him at least ten minutes. On those unfortunate mornings when it was impossible to escape, Mrs. Heatherington and Kwong Kwok always reached the Square ahead of him.

  He hesitated at the curb and peered up and down for any moving vehicles. There was only the milkman pulling his small cart at the far end of the street. George walked more briskly as he crossed to the narrow pavement which edged Knightswood Square. Reaching the curb he slowed his steps again and headed for the nearest gate. He rested the cushion and books on the gate post as he felt in his pocket for the key. There was always a moment of panic when he was unable to find it among the jumble of loose objects. Blast! He would have to go all the way back to his flat. Fitch couldn’t help him. None of the caretakers were permitted to have keys. Then his fingers touched cold metal and a sigh of relief escaped from his lips.

  George unlocked the gate and stepped into the Square. He had made it ahead of the Pekinese.

  Before closing the gate he removed his key from the lock and dropped it back into his pocket. Then, in a final burst of speedy he headed for the shaded morning-bench under the oak tree. He placed his leather cushion on the bench and sat on it, arranging the books beside him.

  As he filled his first pipe for the day he let his eyes wander over the familiar mansions around the Square. George knew who lived behind every window. He also knew who slept late, who was ill, dying, or convalescent, and which wife had left which husband. His charwoman, Mrs. Higby, kept him informed. Twice a day she reported all the latest news of Knightswood Square. At the moment she complained that nothing much was happening. There had been little worth talking about since last year’s murder. That sort of thing didn’t happen often enough to please Mrs. Higby.

  She came to him for several hours, every day but Sunday, and also did daily work in two other mansions on the Square. Late morning, while he sat in the park, Mrs. Higby would straighten the flat and cook his lunch. He always made his own tea but she would return, after finishing her other jobs, and prepare his supper before catching a bus home to Putney.

  Each day as she served his lunch and supper she reported, with relish, the news of the day. He looked forward to Mrs. Higby’s gossip because, otherwise, he would never know what was going on behind his neighbors’ windows. It had been exasperating, last winter, when she was kept to her bed with the flu. He had hired a woman through an agency but she had known nothing about the other residents of the Square. It was as though his morning and evening papers had not been delivered for three weeks.

  Purdy wheeled an empty barrow past, without a word, touching an earthy finger to his leather cap. He never paused for conversation until late in the afternoon.

  George watched as the gardener settled down to work, digging at the roots of a rosebush. Then he turned to look across to the south side of the Square, but there was no sign of Mrs. Heatherington and her Pekinese.

  He checked his watch. 9:36. Six minutes late! Very likely packing for her holiday. She was taking an afternoon train from Victoria Station to Brighton where her daughter-in-law would be waiting to drive her across to Hove. The old lady spent two weeks every August with her son and his family in their pleasant Georgian house overlooking the distant seashore. Mrs. Higby had described the place to him, in detail, many times; she had heard all about it from her friend, Mrs. Price, who came in twice a week to char for Mrs. Heatherington.

  A blur of movement caught his eye at the opposite side of the park and he turned his head to see someone on a bicycle. As his eyes adjusted to the distance he saw that it was Willie Hoskins who, once a mont
hs, washed every window facing the Square. Each flat had its regular day for the window cleaner.

  Willie braked his bicycle in front of Number 26, hoisted it across the pavement, and propped it against the railing of the basement areaway.

  Then he lifted a bucket from the handlebar and carried it up the steps to the front door. George could see the flash of color as the sun caught in Willie’s red hair, noticed the yellow rubber gloves tucked under the wide leather belt that circled his waists the faded blue shirt and trousers as the boy went into the house. Boy? He was a married man of 23 with a wife who, according to Mrs. Higby, regularly had him up before a local magistrate on charges of drunkenness, nonsupport, and knocking her about.

  The tenants of the Square frequently threatened to dispense with Willie’s services, but he would disarm them with his great smile, flashing white teeth and tossing his curly head. It was suspected that Willie was not averse to tossing some of the ladies of Knights wood Square between washing windows. “He’s a complete rascal, he is!” Mrs. Higby would say. “Always leave the front door wide when he does any windows where I be.”

  George turned to look, once again, for Mrs. Heatherington. She was just coming down the front steps of the mansion where she had a second-floor flat. The Pekinese was pulling on his leash, furious at being late, eager to get into the park. He yanked his mistress across the street and when she had unlocked the gate, sprang onto the grass jerking the leather leash out of her hand. The small beast darted to a favorite bush as the old lady closed the gate and dropped the key into her handbag. She crossed to the busy dog and bent stiffly to retrieve his leash. Then, finally, she stood for a moment surveying the Square.

  That was when George Drayton looked in another direction. He had no idea whether Mrs. Heatherington could see him from that distance, but he didn’t want her to think he was observing her. So he always looked away.

  He noticed Willie Hoskins washing a window on the third floor of Number 26—Colonel Whitcomb’s flat. A reflection of sunny sky gleamed from two panes he had already finished, but the others were dull with a month’s accumulation of London soot. As he watched the window cleaner work he could hear the scuffling sound of Mrs. Heatherington’s footsteps approaching down the walk, and as she came nearer he sensed the soft padding of the Pekinese. He turned to look and found that they were much closer than he had anticipated.

  The Pekinese stalked past with majestic disdain but his mistress nodded and smiled. George Drayton bowed as usual. They never spoke. In fact, he had never heard Mrs. Heatherington’s voice except when she talked to the dog.

  George watched them head for the north gate. The old lady paused for a moment to speak to the gardener. Usually she only nodded to Purdy. Probably telling him that she was leaving on holiday. The gardener touched his cap as she continued on her way out of the Square, toward the Old Brompton Road. She would have final errands to do. Small presents for her grandchildren. Very likely a visit to her bank to withdraw money for the two-week holiday.

  He wondered how old the dog might be. A Pekinese, named Kwong Kwok, had accompanied Mrs. Heatherington back from China, more than 30 years ago, when she returned to London after the death of her husband. Ever since there had been a Pekinese named Kwong Kwok, but it was impossible that the original dog could have survived so many years. The dog was a constant topic of conversation among the charwomen. To them and to George Drayton all Pekinese looked alike.

  The first pram of the day, guided by a uniformed nanny, rolled into the Square as George picked up his small pile of books. Soon there would be dark clots of nursemaids and prams. Older children would avoid them and keep to the far side of the park where they could run and shout without glares and reprimands from the easily disturbed nannies.

  He decided to put off reading the novel from Drayton House. Since his retirement, eight years ago, they had sent him a copy of each new book but, too frequently, he only became upset when he read the pretentious trash his nephew was publishing. No point in getting into a temper on such a beautiful day. He put the book aside and hesitated, deciding between the new Simenon and the new Christie. This would be a perfect morning to read about Paris. Simenon it would be…

  As he turned to the first page he glanced across the Square to the dirt-encrusted windows of the third-floor flat where last year’s murder had taken place. They still remained curtained. The Clarkson flat had never been rented. And the murder remained unsolved.

  For two hours he lost himself in a rain-drenched Paris. Inspector Maigret sat in a small cafe, drinking calvados, listening to neighborhood gossip as he watched a house across the street where a man had been murdered. Home for lunch with Madame Maigret in the apartment on the Boulevard Lenoir, then back through a cold drizzle to the cafe with its view of the bleak street. Drinking toddy after toddy. Smoking his pipe…

  George put down the book and filled his own pipe. Why couldn’t he sit here and through pure deduction, like Inspector Maigret, solve last year’s murder? Except that New Scotland Yard had put their best men on the Clarkson case and they had been unable to find any trace of the murderer.

  As George lighted his pipe he noticed Mrs. Higby, parcels clutched in both arms, dart up the front steps of his building. Another hour and she would have the flat in order and his lunch waiting. Wouldn’t she be surprised if he announced the name of the Clarkson murderer as he ate his noon chop!

  He turned again to study the curtained windows of the murder flat. The victim, young Mrs. Clarkson, had been separated from her husband, but not divorced. Harry Clarkson had an alibi for every minute of the afternoon when his wife was killed. They had found her partially clothed body, sprawled across the bed, one silk stocking twisted around her throat and another stuffed into her mouth. The newspapers said that she had not been attacked sexually.

  Clarkson had testified, at the coroner’s inquest, that he had not seen his wife in several months. His solicitor sent her a monthly check and, regularly, tried to persuade her that a divorce would be wise; but she had refused to discuss such a possibility. Her char told the police that Mrs. Clarkson entertained many male visitors. She had never seen any of them but, every mornings she had to clean all the ashtrays. Unfortunately, she had no idea how much money Mrs. Clarkson kept in the flat, so there was no way of knowing whether there had been robbery as well as murder. The dead woman’s purse, containing a few shillings, was found on her dressing table.

  The police reported there had been no fingerprints. All the locals were questioned—caretaker of the buildings milkman, florist, laundryman, greengrocer, window cleaner, postman, delivery boy from the chemist shop. Every name in Mrs. Clarkson’s address book had been traced and interrogated. Nobody knew anything.

  A distant chime of bells brought George Drayton out of his dream of murder. Twelve o’clock. He would finish the Simenon after lunch. As he got to his feet he glanced, once again, at the Clarkson flat. Maigret would have solved the mystery easily, sitting here in the Square, looking up at those curtained windows. But he, George Drayton, didn’t have a suspicion of an idea—in spite of all the detective novels he had read and published.

  He gathered up his books and leather cushion and headed for the gate. As he walked down the path he noticed that the gardener was already wolfing a sandwich, perched between the handles of his barrow. George looked for Willie Hoskins but the window cleaner had disappeared. All the windows of Colonel Whitcomb’s flat gleamed in the noon sunshine, reflecting bright rectangles of blue sky.

  Instead of a chop there was cold salmon for lunch which he ate with appetite. He had all his meals at a small table in the study, surrounded by overflowing bookshelves and facing tall windows which overlooked the Square.

  Mrs. Higby had her usual morning collection of gossip. “That young American couple what sublet Number 29 are leavin’ for Paris next week.”

  Yes, Maigret would have solved the Clarkson murder without difficulty. Except that now the case was more than a year old and the clues would h
ave long since vanished.

  “The old gent in Number 12 is boozin’ again. Mr. Mortan, the super, had to help him out of his cab last night. Carry him in to the lift an’ up to his flat. I’ve a lovely bit of Leicester for you.”

  He studied the curtained windows of the Clarkson apartment, across the Square, as he ate the cheese. Curious that someone—the caretaker or the dead woman’s solicitor—wouldn’t have those unsightly windows washed.

  “Mrs. Heatherington’s off this afternoon on holiday. Her an’ that ol’ dog. This year she’s told Mrs. Price, her char, not to come in while she’s away. Paid her two weeks’ wages, she did. Told her to have herself a bit of a rest. Such a fine lady, Mrs. Heatherington.”

  After lunch George placed his cushion on an afternoon bench near the northwest corner of the Square, his back to the sun. He filled his pipe again and as he smoked he watched the renewed activity around him.

  The gardener was pruning some kind of shrub near the rose arbor. Most of the noisy older children had not reappeared. Probably having an afternoon nap. Several of the nannies had returned with their prams. Or were these different nursemaids? Some of them sat dozing in the warm sunlight.

  He noticed that Willie Hoskins was now washing the windows of Mrs. Heatherington’s flat. Odd that the old lady would want them cleaned the afternoon she was going away. Except that she had given her char a holiday, so there would be no one, these next two weeks, to let Willie Hoskins or anyone else into the flat.

  George opened the Simenon and immediately returned to Paris. He became so absorbed in Maigret’s progress that he was no longer aware of the others in the Square. Squealing children ran past him unheeded. The distant chime of the bells on the quarter hours did not penetrate to his inner ear. He was conscious only of the sounds and voices of Paris, just as Maigret heard them.

  A sudden penetrating scream, shrilly and sharps pulled him back to London and Knights wood Square.