The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “What I’m going to do,” he announced, “is to make Dotty disappear before your eyes.”

  Rennie cackled. “I could make her disappear as well,” he claimed. “She can disappear up to my room any time she wishes.”

  “Please be quiet,” said Crippen, mildly.

  “The same offer goes to you, Mabel. I know you like Scotsmen because you married one. Did he have a kilt like mine?”

  “Sit still and watch,” said Mabel, hiding her annoyance behind an indulgent smile. “Otto really is a master of his craft.”

  Taking his cue, Helsing held his cloak out so that its hem touched the floor. After a little curtsy, Dorothy stepped out of sight behind the cloak. Seconds later, Helsing flicked it aside to show that his assistant had apparently vanished into thin air. Cora, Mabel and Landru clapped in appreciation. Rennie glowered. Crippen wondered how it was done. Helsing gave them no time to work out the secret. With another twirl of his cloak, he held it out for a few seconds then dropped it to the floor. Dorothy had reappeared again, spreading her arms to take the applause.

  “That’s not magic!” yelled Rennie. “It’s a cheat.”

  “Merveilleux!” said Landru, still clapping. “C’est un miracle.”

  “Speak English, you snail-eating bastard.”

  “Don’t be so rude, Angus,” said Cora, reproachfully. “Henri is a guest here. Show him some respect.”

  “I don’t want Hogmanay spoiled by a Frenchie.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told.”

  Crippen spoke surreptitiously to Helsing. “Is there any way you could make Mr Rennie disappear?” he asked.

  “I can think of the perfect way,” murmured the magician.

  “Why don’t we all have another drink?” said Mabel, taking charge of the situation. “Then we can play a few games.”

  Rennie cackled. “And I know just the games to play!”

  Crippen had to spring into action. Whenever Cora’s friends descended on him, he was given the task of passing refreshments around and pouring the drinks. He always felt strangely excluded as if he were a hired waiter rather than the master of the house. It was the same tonight. Alone in the kitchen, he replenished the glasses. His wife was drinking gin while Helsing and Rennie preferred malt whiskey. Mabel, Dorothy and Landru opted for wine. Crippen himself, never a committed tippler, was happy to nurse a glass of stout all evening. He could never understand how the others could drink so much. As he handed the glasses out, he got no sign of gratitude from Rennie and Cora berated him for taking so long.

  When the games started, Crippen joined in reluctantly. The noise got louder, the laughter wilder and Angus Rennie progressively more out of control. As the hours rolled by, the Scotsman managed to insult or upset everyone, reserving his real venom for Landru and making the Frenchman’s dark eyes blaze with fury. Mabel was caught between them. On learning that she was a wealthy widow, Landru began to court her and even suggested that she might visit Paris with him. Having his own designs on Mabel, Rennie was enraged. He did everything but throw a punch at Landru.

  During a lull in the festivities, Crippen took Dorothy aside.

  “I wonder if I could ask you a favour, Miss Quinn?” he said.

  She was guarded. “What sort of favour, Dr Crippen?”

  “I noticed that you have some command of French.”

  “Oh, I speak it very badly,” she said with a self-deprecating smile. “Monsieur Landru was very patient with me.”

  “What do you make of the fellow?”

  “He’s very shy but that’s understandable. I like him.”

  “Could you spare me a few minutes?” he asked, escorting her out of the parlour. “There’s something I want you to translate.”

  “My French is not that good, Dr Crippen.”

  He guided her upstairs and along the landing until they came to Landru’s room. Letting her in, he turned up the gas so that light flooded the whole area. Landru was travelling light. All that he’d brought with him was a small valise. Crippen opened it and extracted a newspaper. Dorothy was alarmed.

  “Should we be doing this?” she said. “It’s private property.”

  Crippen stiffened. “Landru is under my roof, Miss Quinn. That gives me certain rights, I feel.” He opened the newspaper. “There,” he said, pointing to an item. “Translate that for me, please.”

  “I’m not sure that I can.”

  “This edition is four days’ old. There has to be a good reason why Landru has kept it. Tell me what that reason is.”

  Dorothy studied the item carefully and Crippen was struck afresh at how closely she resembled Ethel le Neve, an employee he’d come increasingly to admire. He controlled a powerful urge to touch her and contented himself with inhaling her delicate perfume. Dorothy was nervous. Fearing that they might be disturbed by the Frenchman, she was anxious to get out of the room quickly. She shook her head.

  “I don’t know some of the words,” she confessed.

  “But the police are mentioned, aren’t they?” he said.

  “Yes – and so is Monsieur Landru. This is the word that I can’t translate,” she went on, indicating it. “Escroquerie.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I’m not certain, Dr Crippen.”

  “You must have some idea.”

  “All I can do is to hazard a guess.”

  “Go on.”

  “I think it’s something to do with fraud.”

  “I knew it,” said Crippen. “We’re harbouring a criminal.”

  After replacing the newspaper and turning down the light, Crippen led the way out. He sent Dorothy back downstairs alone. Standing in the shadows, he weighed the significance of what he’d just discovered. Landru was on the run. That accounted for his unheralded arrival on their doorstep. He was a swindler. It was Crippen’s duty to inform the police at once and he moved off to do so. Then he checked himself. There was no need to rush things. Cora would never forgive him for wrecking the Hogmanay celebrations by having one of their guests arrested. Besides, Crippen wasn’t sure that the British police would have any jurisdiction over Landru. He agonized for several minutes about what he should do and decided that he’d simply bide his time. The important thing was that the Frenchman had been identified as a criminal. Crippen resolved to keep a close eye on him.

  When he went downstairs, he heard a noise from the kitchen and went to investigate. Mabel Roy was looking in a cupboard.

  “What are you doing in here?” he asked.

  “I was searching for some cake,” she replied. “Part of the Hogmanay tradition is to give oatmeal cake to children. That’s why its other name is Cake-Day.”

  “We don’t have any oatmeal cake.”

  “Any kind of cake will do. Since we don’t have a child either, we’ll have to make do with Miss Quinn. She’s the youngest here.”

  “Let’s forget about the cake, shall we?” said Crippen, closing the cupboard door. “If Mr Rennie is an example of how Scotsmen behave on Hogmanay, I don’t think we need to be too faithful to tradition. I’ve never seen him so drunk. The man’s conduct has been abominable.”

  “It’s only because he’s very unhappy.”

  “Oh?”

  Crippen’s first impulse had been to get her out of the kitchen as swiftly as possible because it was so embarrassingly dirty. Cora didn’t believe in cleaning the stove or stacking the utensils in any kind of order. Unwashed crockery stood in the sink and every surface was covered by piles of tins and bottles of alcohol. The only consolation was that the subdued light hid most of the grime. Crippen didn’t try to usher her out because Mabel Roy was a shrewd woman. She might have some insight into Rennie’s unpardonable antics and he wanted to hear what it was.

  “This is only an opinion, mark you,” she warned.

  “I trust your judgment.”

  “Well, according to Belle – to Cora, that is – Angus Rennie was a pleasant man when he lodged here. She spoke fondly of him.”

&nb
sp; “Mr Rennie was tolerable enough,” conceded Crippen.

  “I think he’s been badly wounded in an affair of the heart. That’s why he has that air of desperation about him. Your wife knows him, of course, and is ready to let him take a few liberties but he was very forward with me and more or less pursued poor Miss Quinn into the basement during one of the games.” She smiled sadly. “I feel sorry for the man. I know what the loss of a loved one can do to you.”

  Crippen was about to point out that a blighted romance didn’t entitle Rennie to behave so aggressively but Cora swept into the room.

  “Is this true, Mabel?” she demanded. “I’ve just been speaking to Otto and he tells me there’s every possibility of a strike.”

  “I’d say that it was more of a probability,” replied Mabel.

  “If we go on strike, we earn no money.”

  “That’s not the way to look at it, Cora. At the moment, we’re at the mercy of the managers. Our contracts usually oblige us to perform one matinée a week. But they now want us to add three or four matinées without any extra payment. I call that sheer exploitation.”

  “I don’t care what you call it,” said Cora, truculently. “Nobody will make me go on strike.”

  “If the Variety Artistes Federation makes the decision, you’ll have to obey it. We must stick together.”

  “My place is on a stage and nobody will shift me from it.”

  “Need we have this discussion in here?” bleated Crippen.

  Cora was dismissive. “Oh, be quiet, Hawley!”

  “Go into the parlour where we have a fire.”

  “I’m glad you mentioned the fire,” she said. “It’s dying. Make yourself useful for a change and fetch some coal.” Crippen hesitated. “Off you go, man. We want a good blaze at midnight.”

  Smarting at her brusque treatment of him, Crippen went into the parlour to retrieve the coal scuttle. Dorothy was at the piano, tapping out a ditty with one finger.

  “Where are the others?” asked Crippen.

  “There was nobody here when I came downstairs,” she said, “though I heard Mr Helsing talking to your wife in the dining room.”

  “What about Landru?”

  “I’ve not seen him for ages, Dr Crippen.”

  “Say nothing of what we found out about him.”

  “I won’t breathe a word,” she promised. “In any case, we don’t know that he’s a criminal. Just because the French police want him, it doesn’t mean that he’s done anything wrong. He seems such a kind and attentive gentleman. I can’t believe he’d commit a crime.”

  “Then why is he here? Why did Landru flee abroad?”

  “People leave their countries for all sorts of reasons. Mr Helsing left Germany thirty years ago because he was invited here. He’s now as English as I am. You and Mrs Crippen left America because you felt you could better yourselves here.”

  Crippen groaned inwardly. “Let’s not talk about why my wife and I emigrated,” he said. “What I can assure you is that we were not in flight from a police warrant.”

  Picking up the coal scuttle, he excused himself and went off to the cellar. Before he descended the stairs, he picked up an oil lamp to light his way. It was cold and dank in the cellar. Shivering his way down the steps, he told himself that there were far better ways to spend New Year’s Eve than being at his wife’s beck and call in a house filled with her friends. Mabel and Dorothy were acceptable company. For the others, he had nothing but contempt. Of Landru, he had a positive loathing. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he put the coal scuttle aside so that he could open the door with a free hand then he raised the lamp to illumine the scene. What he saw made him step backwards and let out a gasp of horror. Face down on a heap of coal was a man whose head had been smashed open. It was Angus Rennie.

  Crippen stayed long enough to make sure that the Scotsman was dead then he closed the door and put his back against it. As he considered what to do, his heart was pounding. Somewhere upstairs was a killer, someone who’d been provoked beyond measure by Rennie and turned on him. Landru was the obvious suspect but Helsing had also clashed with the man. Nor could the women be discounted. All three of them had been harassed at some stage of the evening by Rennie. Crippen reeled as a thought struck him. Had Cora struck the fatal blow? Was he married to a murderer? Having regained his composure, he opened the door to take a closer look at the victim. Blood surrounded the scalp wound. There were no other marks upon the Scotsman.

  Crippen used the lamp to guide himself to the top of the stairs. As he entered the parlour, he found Cora still expressing disapproval of the projected strike. Mabel, who was on the committee of the Variety Artistes Federation, was strongly in favour of it. Helsing supported her. Dorothy took no part in the argument.

  “We have to stand up to the managers,” insisted Helsing.

  “It’s all very well for you to say that, Otto,” retorted Cora. “You’re famous and in constant demand. I’m neither of those things. If I go on strike, managers will never employ me again.”

  “Yes, they will,” said Mabel, earnestly. “If we take united action, we can close every music hall in the land. We’ll only go back to work on our terms – and that means getting paid for every matinée.”

  “Excuse me,” said Crippen, walking over to them.

  “Don’t interrupt us now,” snarled Cora. “This is important.”

  “It’s not as important as what I have to say, my dear.”

  She turned on him. “Where’s the coal? Can’t you even manage to fill a scuttle on your own?”

  “Mr Rennie is dead.”

  “What are you talking about?” she snapped.

  “Angus Rennie is in the coal cellar. He’s been murdered.”

  The others looked stunned but Cora was furious.

  “Is this some kind of a joke?” she said.

  “If you don’t believe me, go and see for yourself.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Helsing, seriously. “Your husband is not in the habit of making jokes, Cora. I’m inclined to believe him.”

  As the magician left the room, the three women felt the full impact of what they’d just heard. Dorothy emitted a cry, Mabel put a hand to her heart and sank into a chair while Cora glared at her husband as if blaming him for the sudden interruption to their celebrations. It was not long before Helsing returned.

  “It’s the truth,” he acknowledged. “Rennie is dead.”

  “How?” cried Cora.

  “Who could have done such a thing?” asked Mabel in a daze. “We must call the police immediately.”

  “No,” decided Crippen, feeling empowered for once. “I want to uncover the truth first. I want to unmask the killer myself.”

  “Well, don’t look at me,” said Cora, huffily. “I liked Angus.”

  “I detested the fellow,” admitted Helsing, “but that doesn’t mean I’d bludgeon him like that.”

  “Is that how it happened?” asked Dorothy, tremulously.

  “Someone hit him with a lump of coal.”

  “What on earth was he doing down there?”

  “We must put that question to Landru,” said Crippen.

  It was at that precise second that the Frenchman walked back into the room. He was startled when they all turned to look at him so intently. He ran a finger around the inside of his collar.

  “Something, there is wrong?” he asked.

  “Where have you been, Monsieur?” said Crippen.

  “I go out for the fresh air.”

  “It must be freezing cold out there.”

  “I not like to be indoors all the time,” explained Landru. “I take the little walk.”

  “And did that little walk include a visit to the coal cellar?”

  The Frenchman shrugged. “But no – why should it?”

  “Because that’s where Mr Rennie was killed,” said Helsing, looming over him. “That’s where someone battered him to death.”

  “Is not me,” pleaded Landru, eyes darti
ng.

  “You didn’t like Mr Rennie, did you?”

  “No, sir, is true. I no like him.”

  “He baited you time and again.”

  “What is this ‘baited’ you say?”

  “He provoked you,” said Crippen. “He insulted you. He called you names. You were bound to be upset.”

  “I no touch the man.”

  “You wanted revenge.”

  “Is not true – I swear it.”

  “I believe him,” said Cora, stoutly. “You only have to look into his eyes. Henri takes after my husband. He’s too gentle by nature to commit a murder.”

  “Even the gentlest of men will strike out if pushed to extremes,” said Crippen, grimly. “Let me suggest two things to you, Monsieur. The first is this. I put it to you that the reason you hate to be cooped up inside a house is that you served a prison sentence. You can’t stand being locked away.” Landru gulped and brought both hands up to his face. “I had a feeling I might be right on that score.”

  Cora blenched. “A prison sentence – whatever was his crime?”

  “He’s a swindler, my dear.”

  “Is a lie,” howled Landru. “I not guilty.”

  “Listen to my second suggestion,” said Crippen. “You fled to England because the French police were after you for another crime.”

  “Is a mistake, Dr Crippen.”

  “We don’t need to hear any more of this,” said Helsing, grabbing Landru’s wrist. “He needs to be arrested for murder. I’ll detain him here while someone calls the police.”

  Crippen headed for the door. “Leave that to me.”

  Hilldrop Crescent was a leafy thoroughfare off the Camden Road. When Crippen came out of the house, he saw a clutch of revellers waiting to greet the approaching New Year with flagons of beer in their hands. He spoke to one of them and the man eventually agreed to run to the nearest police station. Returning to the house, Crippen first went into his dispensary. When he found what he was after, he slipped it into his pocket. A loud scream from the parlour alerted him. Rushing into the hall, he collided with Landru who knocked him flying before fleeing through the front door. Crippen got up and went into the parlour where he saw Otto Helsing sprawled on the floor with blood dribbling from his nose. Dorothy was crying and Mabel was bending solicitously over the magician. As if by reflex, Cora identified her husband as the culprit.