As if by Magic

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Nigel Lassiter strode into his father’s office, slamming the door behind him.

  David, who was standing by his father’s desk, jerked his head up. ‘What the hell’s got into you?’

  Nigel ignored him and threw down a letter in front of Mr Lassiter. ‘Read that. Just read that. That bloody woman!’

  Mr Lassiter gazed at his furious son, then picked up his reading glasses and glanced at the superscription. ‘From Mrs Culverton. Thank you . . . efforts involved . . . of great interest . . . long association . . . cannot see my way to . . . however. . . however . . .’ He put down the letter and drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘It could be worse,’ he said at last. ‘It could be a great deal worse.’

  ‘How?’ demanded Nigel, flinging himself into a chair. ‘We don’t get another penny from her until the maiden flight to India. India, for God’s sake! I don’t care about India, it’s a week on Friday I’m bothered about. If I can’t get some more money we’ll have to call off the dinner and we’ll look like complete idiots.’

  David picked up the letter and read through it. ‘She says she expects the final cost of the aircraft to reflect the money already paid towards the project by Culverton Air Navigation.’

  ‘She says she’ll fund part of the production – part, mind you – if we agree to virtually give her a blasted plane. How the blazes are we supposed to make any money out of that?’

  David’s voice was deliberately calm. ‘I can’t help thinking that’s fair enough, Nigel.’

  ‘You would. You’ve never believed in the Pegasus. Why didn’t you tell the bloody reporters it was going to crash on take-off? It’s what you expect, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not expecting anything of the sort,’ said David patiently. ‘For God’s sake, Nigel, you know it needs more work.’

  Nigel Lassiter buried his head in his hands. ‘Work! That’s all I ever do. I’ve worked so hard and this – this bloody letter – is all the thanks I get for it. We need sales. I need money.’

  ‘The press presentation caused a lot of interest,’ said Mr Lassiter. ‘Some of the comments make wonderful reading.’

  Nigel looked up. ‘So what? They were bound to like it. They couldn’t but like it. I was relying on Culverton’s. What the devil does she mean, she expects a substantial reduction? Does she want me to be grateful? Why the hell should I be?’

  David folded his arms and sat on the corner of the desk. ‘What now? The company’s stretched as it’s never been before. If we had the funds we could carry the seaplane until orders came in but we haven’t. I’ll freely admit it, Nigel, the plane’s a beauty. Once you’ve had a successful maiden voyage to India, the aircraft will virtually sell itself. But – and it’s a big but – you’ve got to get her to that stage. Is there anyone else you can approach?’

  Nigel’s shoulders sank. ‘I don’t know.’ He bit his nails broodingly. ‘The firm will have to pay up. You’ll just have to give me the money.’

  ‘We haven’t got it!’ said David angrily. ‘I always said this was too big a project for us.’

  ‘Yes, I know. You wanted to stick with your businessmen’s bus. You’ve got it in for me, David. You want me to fail. Ever since Thomas’s crash you’ve been trying to undermine me. Don’t deny it. You know it’s true but it was his fault, not mine. He couldn’t control the plane.’

  David Lassiter got to his feet and, hands opening and closing, towered over his brother. ‘You think I’ve got it in for you, do you?’ he said in a deceptively quiet voice. ‘You think Thomas was to blame?’ His hand shot out, grasping Nigel’s shirt and hauling him to his feet. ‘Well, let me tell you –’

  Nigel, his dark eyes alight with fear, wriggled as helplessly as a worm on a hook.

  Mr Lassiter brought his fist crashing down on the table. ‘David! Calm down.’ David Lassiter didn’t respond. ‘David!’

  David slowly turned his head to look at his father, then, like a man coming up from underwater, looked at his hands, shook himself and released his grip.

  Nigel dropped back into the chair, staring at his brother. ‘You damned lunatic,’ he said softly. David was staring at his hands. Nigel straightened out his shirt. ‘It’s not safe to be in the same room as you.’

  Mr Lassiter smacked his fist down on the table again. ‘Nigel! That was completely uncalled for. David, you mustn’t let your temper get the better of you, no matter what the provocation.’

  David, still staring at his upturned hands, blinked and looked at his father. It was as if he was coming back from somewhere very far away. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I forgot myself for the moment.’

  Nigel, still straightening his tie, continued to stare at David. ‘What about me? Don’t I deserve an apology?’

  David, white-lipped, swallowed and flexed his hands. Nigel instinctively started back in his seat.

  Mr Lassiter leaned forward warningly. ‘David!’ he said urgently.

  David Lassiter took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders. ‘Sorry,’ he said evenly.

  A thin smile curled Nigel’s mouth. ‘That’ll do, I suppose. Now, if we can return to business, I’d like to point out that Mrs Culverton has given us all a problem. This firm needs the Pegasus and I’d like to remind you both that you promised you’d see the Pegasus through, not abandon it at the last minute. I need money!’

  ‘The press presentation –’ began Mr Lassiter.

  Nigel cut him off. ‘The press presentation! Don’t talk to me about that. Yes, we got mentioned in the aviation papers but the Pegasus should have been headline news. What happened? All the coverage was about that South African idiot and his pal, to say nothing of Daring David here, cavorting around the roof. I wish the bloody idiot had fallen off. It would have served him right.’

  Mr Lassiter took off his glasses and stared very hard at his son. Then he placed his hands flat on the desk in front of him and concentrated on keeping them steady. Nigel, suddenly aware that he had gone drastically too far, swallowed and waited. When Mr Lassiter eventually spoke, it was in a quiet, even voice that Nigel had only heard a very few times before. ‘That South African idiot, as you call him, is my grandson. I do not feel I have to add to that statement. If you –’ here he gave Nigel such a withering glance that he flinched – ‘had an ounce of his concern for others then I would be a far happier man. I could describe your character; I prefer to leave such things unsaid. As for the Pegasus, unless fresh money is forthcoming soon, then I am afraid that the seaplane will have to be postponed until we have recouped at least some of our losses.’

  Nigel glanced at him then fumbled for a cigarette. ‘Postponed?’ He rubbed his forehead and gave his father an agonized look. ‘You don’t mean it, do you? You can’t.’ He mouth twisted. ‘Look, it’ll be all right. I’m sorry I said that about George. I didn’t mean it. You must know I didn’t mean it. You can’t hold it against me, not now. All I need is a bit more money to bridge the gap. It’s going to be a success. You must help. We’ve got to fly next week. It’s all arranged. It was Anne who suggested I host a dinner, a dinner in the air over London. If it wasn’t for Anne I could have postponed the first flight but I’ve got to fly next week. She said it would be a success. She’s put a lot of thought into it. You can’t let Anne down. You wouldn’t let Anne down, would you, David?’

  ‘That’s a bit transparent,’ commented David.

  ‘She really has put a lot of effort into it,’ said his father. ‘I can see she’d be disappointed if it didn’t come off. There’s been quite a bit of excitement in the press about it. And Nigel’s quite right. It would cause some very adverse comment if the dinner were to be cancelled.’

  Nigel stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. ‘I can’t let that happen. I’m so close,’ he said, more to himself than to the other two men in the room. ‘I’m so very close . . .’

  It was Sunday afternoon. Jack, alone in his rooms, lay in drowsy comfort full-length on the sofa, the Messenger discarded in a heap beside him. Ou
tside, the rain-filled wind rattled against the windows. He felt a warm sense of pleasure at the contrast. A coal fell on the glowing fire, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. From the hallway below a distant telephone bell jangled. It was probably the telephone which had woken him up. He snuggled back into the cushions, gazing abstractedly at the ceiling. George was at Eden Street and it was pleasant to have only his own thoughts for company.

  George had suffered as a result of his experiences at the factory. He’d wrenched the muscles in his arm and had to wear a sling all week. Still, compared with what could have happened . . . He thought once more of George’s white face and the agonized clutch of his hand and shuddered. That moment when he felt himself being pulled inexorably over the edge of the board-walk was easily one of the worst in his life. My God, but he was grateful to David.

  David: his mouth tightened as he thought of David. It seemed incredible that, granted the sort of man Culverton had been, the only person who seemed to have any motive to kill him was David. Bill had put in no end of work, chasing up Culverton’s associates, but there was nothing. Peggy Culverton had a motive, of course, and, like David, a trumped-up alibi, but that was all. Bill had had a long discussion with the Assistant Commissioner about them. As the AC had pointed out, there wasn’t a shred of any real evidence, only a circumstantial case. In the AC’s opinion, once Anne Lassiter, David Lassiter and, most of all, Peggy Culverton had explained those circumstances, no jury in England would bring in a guilty verdict. And Bill’s opinion? Agnostic would probably sum it up. However, he agreed with the AC about the reactions of any jury, especially if Mrs Culverton even hinted what she believed about her husband.

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Major Haldean?’ It was Mrs Pettycure. ‘There’s a telephone call for you, sir.’

  Damn. ‘Thank you,’ Jack called back as he levered himself off the sofa.

  Bill Rackham was on the phone. ‘Jack?’

  His voice was urgent and Jack was instantly alert. ‘What is it?’

  Rackham’s voice was sharp and thin with worry. ‘We were wrong about Culverton. Another girl’s been found in the river.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Very dead.’ Jack could hear the emotion in Rackham’s voice. ‘She was marked with a cross. I thought this was over. I thought it had stopped but we were wrong, Jack, wrong. We’re back to square one.’

  Chapter Eleven

  At half past nine on Tuesday morning Jack walked briskly down the Strand to Fleet Street, crossed at the Cheshire Cheese, weaved his way through the traffic and stopped by the newspaper seller standing in the shelter of the doorway of the steps leading up to the third-floor offices of On the Town.

  ‘Paper, Major?’ asked the newspaper seller, holding out a copy of the Chronicle.

  ‘Thanks, Stan,’ said Jack, feeling in his pocket for change.

  ‘I see they’re no further forward catching this Ripper,’ said Stan. ‘I don’t know what the police are playing at. Useless, they are.’

  ‘Umm,’ said Jack diplomatically, glancing at the headlines. Politics had moved the Ripper into second place but the story was essentially the same as in Monday’s paper. Yesterday the victim had no name. Now she was identified as Martha Palmer of Sheffield Court, Marylebone, thought to be twenty-six, originally from Brighton, who had, until last April, been employed as a waitress at the Golden Road Café in Soho and had twice been cautioned for soliciting. No one had seen her since Saturday morning.

  Jack had an idea of the work behind that simple statement. He felt an unexpected wave of anger. Her life – not a good or productive life but still a life – could be summed up in a couple of sentences whereas her death spawned two paragraphs of newsprint. He skipped through the rest of the piece quickly. Bill had told him the details on Sunday. The body had been found at three in the afternoon by a bargeman moored up in the Surrey Basin at Rotherhithe. Bill had added more graphic details than the newspaper either knew or felt comfortable printing. The actual cause of death was strangulation but she’d suffered before she’d died. And they’d thought Culverton was the Ripper. They were, as Bill had said, back to square one.

  He glanced at the rest of the front page, then stiffened.

  ‘Major?’ asked Stan. ‘You all right?’

  Jack didn’t hear him at first and Stan repeated the question.

  ‘Yes,’ he said absently. ‘Yes, fine.’ He glanced at the stairs of On the Town. The magazine could do without him for a couple of hours. He needed to get to Scotland Yard.

  ‘It’s this that’s brought me along,’ said Jack, putting his finger on a small paragraph at the bottom of the Chronicle’s front page.

  ‘Merchant banker found dead,’ read Rackham. ‘The body of Martin Ridgeway, partner in Croft and Ridgeway, High Holborn, was found at his home in Sutherland Park Road, Kew. Mr Ridgeway, fifty-six years old . . . well-known man about town . . . found by his manservant . . . believed to have shot himself . . . married, no children . . . separated from his wife who now resides in France.’ Rackham looked up from the paper. ‘No doubt it’s all very sad, Jack, but why should I be interested?’

  ‘Because Martin Ridgeway was one of Nigel Lassiter’s major investors.’

  Rackham’s eyes widened. ‘Was he, by jingo?’

  Jack hitched himself on to the corner of the desk. ‘There’s something very wrong at Lassiter’s, Bill. First of all Culverton, the chief investor, gets killed, Michael Walsh, the secretary, dies and now Martin Ridgeway shoots himself. I suppose he did shoot himself, did he?’

  Rackham reached for the telephone. ‘Give me a few minutes. That’s something I can find out easily enough.’

  A series of telephone calls followed. Rackham eventually put down the receiver and looked at the impatiently waiting Jack. ‘It’s suicide, right enough. I’ve spoken to Superintendent Sykes from Kew and I’d trust his opinion, Jack. Sykes tells me that he was called to the house in Kew yesterday afternoon. Ridgeway returned home from work unexpectedly at midday, looking haggard and ill. Three of the servants saw him. His butler suggested calling the doctor but Ridgeway refused and retreated to his study. Shortly after, there was the sound of a shot. Ridgeway had locked the door but his body was clearly visible from the window. The butler called the police and Sykes had to break the door down. Ridgeway kept a pistol in the study and that’s the weapon which was used. There’s absolutely nothing to suggest it was anything other than suicide.’

  ‘I met Ridgeway, y’know,’ said Jack. ‘I thought he was a bit of a creep to be honest. He was at the press presentation at Lassiter’s last week and you should have seen him leering at Stella Aldryn. I thought George was going to thump him.’

  ‘He had a name as a womanizer, according to Sykes,’ agreed Rackham. ‘In fact he seems to have been a bit unsavoury all round. Sykes contacted his firm, Croft and Ridgeway, and got the full story. Apparently Ridgeway had his hand in the till for the last couple of years at least. He was safe enough while old Mr Croft was in charge, but he died two months ago and his son, James Croft, who, according to Sykes, is a very sharp type indeed, took over. He told Sykes he’d suspected something was amiss and spent Sunday going through the accounts. He’d found certain evidence that Ridgeway was embezzling money and informed the man of his findings on Monday morning, adding that he’d arranged for an independent audit to be carried out, starting that afternoon. Ridgeway didn’t argue but left the office and went home.’ He looked at the newspaper and shrugged. ‘The rest we know.’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘Jack, you said there was something wrong at Lassiter’s. What?’

  Jack held his hands wide. ‘I don’t know, but three deaths, Bill? And the link between them all is Lassiter’s.’

  Rackham counted them off. ‘Culverton was murdered, Walsh died of heart failure and Ridgeway shot himself.’

  ‘There’s also the dead girl who George thought he saw,’ Jack reminded him.

  Rackham gave a snort of disapproval. ‘I’m not including imaginary corpse
s. Jack. I’ve got enough real ones to deal with, especially when the supposed victim turns up as large as life and, according to you, twice as beautiful. There can’t be a link. Apart from anything else, who at Lassiter’s benefits from any of the deaths? I mean, we’re talking about Nigel and David, aren’t we? Nigel wouldn’t bump off his two chief investors and although David had a private motive for killing Culverton, I can’t see he’d have a grudge against Walsh or Ridgeway, even overlooking the fact one died of natural causes and the other committed suicide.’

  ‘We know there’s no love lost between Nigel and David,’ said Jack thoughtfully. ‘Ridgeway’s death following hot on the heels of Culverton’s makes things very awkward for Nigel.’

  ‘Murders aren’t committed to make life awkward. If David loathes his brother to that extent, it’d make a damn sight more sense for him to bump off Nigel, not merely inconvenience him.’

  Jack gave a wry smile. ‘True enough. And, granted that Ridgeway invested in Lassiter’s, things must be awkward for David, too. Even if they are at daggers drawn, David still needs the Pegasus to be a success if the company’s going to recoup the money they’ve put into it.’ He linked his fingers together thoughtfully. ‘It was the three deaths so close together that got to me, Bill.’

  ‘If Ridgeway topped himself, it can’t be anything more than coincidence.’

  Jack clicked his tongue. ‘Coincidences happen, I suppose.’ He shrugged his shoulders in irritation. ‘Never mind. I see you’ve managed to identify the latest Ripper victim.’

  ‘Yes, much good it’s done us. You know, I really thought Culverton was our man.’

  ‘Couldn’t he be?’ asked Jack. ‘I mean, what if this latest killing is an imitation?’

  ‘We’ve thought of that,’ said Rackham. ‘After all, everyone knows about the X man and it’s easy enough to copy the mark. It could be an imitation, it could be completely unrelated or it could be that Culverton was simply some ghastly creep who harboured obscene photographs and cuttings about the Ripper while the real man is getting away scot-free. It could be any number of things. This chap, Ridgeway, could be the X man, I suppose, although that’s too much to hope for. That’s as good a theory as any. Don’t you see what we’re up against, Jack? We can’t just guess. Anyone, anyone at all, could be guilty. We simply don’t know and I can’t see we’re ever going to know unless we have that lucky break we talked about.’ There was a thin thread of anger in his voice. He pushed his chair back from the desk and, getting up, walked restlessly around the room. ‘All the usual sources are a waste of time. Nobody knows anything. Whoever this swine is, he’s completely outside the run of everyday crooks and villains.’ He perched on the windowsill. ‘Forget it. Somehow, somewhere, our man’s going to make a slip and when he does, we’ve got him.’