The Shivering Mountain

by Paul Somers

“Of course … I’ve been doing a lot of work on it since yesterday. Real work—not going to conferences. What’s more, I’ve been doing some thinking.” He spoke as though it were some rare ordeal he’d subjected himself to. “And I’ve got a theory.”

  I said, “I’d like to hear it.”

  “You’ll keep it under your hat?”

  “If it’s anything like your usual theories,” I said, “it’ll be the only safe place for it!”

  He ignored that. “Well, the fact is I don’t accept that Ministry stuff at all—not any part of it. I think they’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick entirely. Just because Landon was a physicist they’ve taken it for granted that that’s why he was kidnapped. I don’t believe it. I don’t believe he could possibly have been abducted by some kind of enemy agent.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because of the evidence, old boy. Whoever pulled this job knew pretty well everything there was to know about Landon and Clara Waugh and the set-up at Palmers Road. He knew Landon was going to visit his daughter that evening. He knew there was an approach to Clara’s house from the back. He knew the garden gate wouldn’t be locked. He probably knew there was a high wall round the garden or he couldn’t have taken the risk of breaking in. He knew Clara was alone in the place. He knew Landon would let himself in with his own key. He knew the police would stay quietly outside and let Landon go in alone. He knew the time Landon was going to arrive to within a few minutes—he must have been able to bank on that, because if Landon had turned up a quarter of an hour earlier it wouldn’t have been properly dark and the intruder wouldn’t have been able to march him out. Those are just a few of the things. For my money, they don’t add up to an enemy agent—they add up to someone with very intimate knowledge of the family.”

  I was silent for a moment. Then I said, “Surely an agent could have had intimate knowledge. He’d have needed the right contacts, of course, but that would be part of his job—to get them. For all we know there may be someone planted right inside the Crede Establishment. Perhaps a close colleague of Landon’s—one of the chaps who was told he was going to visit his daughter. As for the rest of the information, a good agent would naturally reconnoitre the place pretty thoroughly beforehand. He could have pretended to be a tradesman or something. And he could easily have been around during one of Landon’s previous visits, and seen that Landon used his own key and that the police waited outside.… Well, perhaps not easily, with the police watching, but I’m sure he could have managed it somehow. He might even have fixed himself up in one of the neighbouring houses.…” I paused. “Anyway, if Landon wasn’t abducted because he was a physicist, why was he abducted?”

  “Ah!” Lawson hitched his chair a little closer to mine and dropped his voice, though there was no one else in the room. “Now that’s just it. That’s where I think the Ministry hasn’t been able to see the wood for the trees.… My idea, old boy, is that someone had a jolly good reason for getting rid of Landon, a personal reason, and used the fact that he was a valued scientist as a kind of cover. That would be a pretty clever plan, wouldn’t it? Setting the whole country off on a spy hunt, when the truth was close at home!”

  “But did anyone have a good reason for getting rid of Landon, apart from the public one?”

  “The answer to that is, yes, old boy. I told you I’d been doing a bit of sleuthing. Yesterday evening I had a long private chat with Bailey. I asked him if he’d had a look into Landon’s private life at all—personal, financial, that sort of thing. He had, of course—just part of the routine. And do you know what I found out? Landon had a big die-to-win insurance policy with the Star and General … Ten thousand pounds.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s a fact. Apparently he used to do a good deal of rock-climbing when he was a young man and he took the policy out soon after his daughter was born, as a protection for his wife, and kept it going from habit. So now, assuming he’s dead, somebody inherits ten thousand pounds, which is quite a lot of lolly. And I’ll give you one guess who inherits.”

  “His daughter, I suppose.”

  “You’re absolutely right. His daughter—and indirectly, of course, her fiancé, Mr. Barr. And there’s your motive! Get the idea? My theory, old boy, is that Clara and Barr conspired together to get rid of the old man and cash in. Clara made the arrangements for her father’s visit, including roughly the time he’d arrive. Barr made the bogus telephone call—just so the neighbours could hear the phone ring. Clara went off to the hospital, having broken the pane of glass in the back door earlier in the day to make it look as though a stranger had got in during her absence. Barr parked his car at the end of the path and sneaked into the house by the back way and waited inside for Landon. As soon as Landon came in he stuck a gun in his back, marched him to the car, bashed him on the head with a spanner, and dumped the body in a quiet spot. And now Barr and Clara are both sitting pretty.… Well, what do you think of it?”

  I was speechless. Lawson’s theories usually carved swathes through people’s reputations without much regard for evidence, but this one went far beyond anything I’d heard yet. I said, “I think it’s the lousiest, most unlikely theory you’ve ever put up.… Is this what you’ve been so busy typing?”

  “More or less.”

  “Then if you take my advice you’ll tear it up before anyone sees it. Otherwise they’ll get you for criminal libel before you can say Old Bailey.”

  Lawson looked quite unabashed. “Why do you say it’s unlikely?”

  “What—parricide?”

  “Be your age, old boy—it’s happened often enough. What about Lizzie Borden? You don’t want to let yourself be taken in by these women, you know—you can’t trust any of ’em. Particularly the good-lookers. And I’d say Clara Waugh’s just the type. I found out a few things about her at the time of the Angel case—I’ve made quite a study of her. I’ve been doing some real investigating—not just sitting on my backside at a green baize table! Her mother was Italian—did you know that? Real Borgia blood there! Dark passion and all that. You may think she seems quite normal, but she’s not all she appears to be—not by a long chalk. She tried to give the impression she was fond of her father, didn’t she?—but I can tell you it’s all my eye.…” He glanced round the room to make sure we were still alone. “Here, take a look at this.…”

  He thrust a sheet of notepaper into my hand. It was a brief letter, written from the Crede Establishment and dated about two months back. It said:

  DEAR CLARA,

  I was very distressed by the tone of your letter. I wrote as I did the other day only because I’m very fond of you and thought it was my duty—not because I want to interfere in your life. I wish you’d let me come and see you, so that we could talk about things. It’s nearly eight months since we met, and that’s far too long.

  Your affectionate Father,

  ARTHUR LANDON

  I said, “Where on earth did you get this from?”

  Lawson grinned. “From Clara’s house. I heard she was spending yesterday evening with her fiancé at his place, so I went along to Palmers Road to see what I could find out. The cops had gone, so I popped in and had a look round.”

  “One of these days,” I said, “you’ll be jailed for breaking and entering—and it’ll serve you damned well right!”

  “Not breaking, old boy, not this time—just entering. The smashed pane hasn’t been mended yet—and with those high walls round, it seemed too good a chance to miss.… Anyway, what do you make of the letter?”

  “Well,” I said cautiously, “it’s obvious they’d been having a bit of a row—but it’s equally obvious that Clara responded to his letter and that they patched things up all right. Landon’s certainly been seeing a lot of her lately.”

  “That doesn’t mean a thing—it could have been part of the plot. Clara would naturally have had to invite him along once or twice if she and Barr were planning to bump him off. They’d have wanted to get him used to t
he routine.”

  “She could just as well have wanted him to get to know her fiancé, as she said.”

  “She could, old boy, but I don’t think she did. My guess is that it was a sort of rehearsal. I think they wanted to make sure the police got used to staying outside when he arrived, and that he got used to letting himself in.… Why do you suppose he’d been given his own key?”

  “Clara explained that. He used the place when she was away, and hung on to the key afterwards.”

  “That’s what she said, but is it likely? Why would a man in Landon’s position go to a dump like Palmers Road and stay there on his own when he could have gone to a decent hotel? I can tell you this—none of the neighbours remember him staying there alone, because I checked.”

  “They probably wouldn’t remember anyway, if it was just the odd night. Besides, Clara said it was some time ago.”

  “Well, I don’t believe he was ever there alone. I don’t believe he had a key until recently. I think Clara gave him the key because she knew that on the fatal night she wouldn’t be at home, she’d be at the hospital, so he’d have to let himself in. It sticks out a mile.”

  “Not to me,” I said. “It can’t be all that unusual for a father to have a key to his daughter’s house.”

  “I’d say it was pretty unusual, if the father’s a rare visitor and not on very good terms with his daughter.… Anyway, while we’re on this question of visits, there’s another thing. Clara must have something on her conscience, or she’d have been more frank. At that so-called news conference you attended, she said she hadn’t seen her father, until these last few visits, for ‘a month or two.’ Those were her actual words. Now would you say eight months was ‘a month or two’? ‘A few months,’ maybe, but not ‘a month or two.’ ”

  “She was in a pretty worried state when she said that, Lawson.”

  “I don’t believe she could have made that mistake just out of worry—I’d say the statement was a deliberate lie. Obviously she wouldn’t want to give the impression she’d been on strained terms with the old man if she’d just helped to bump him off.”

  “Then why did she leave this letter lying about for anyone to find?”

  “It was with a lot of others—she probably overlooked it. Murderers always overlook something, you know that.… Anyway, I’ve not finished yet, not by a long way. Tell me this! Why was the light on in the downstairs room?”

  “Clara said she forgot to turn it off. It seems reasonable enough, considering the state she was in.”

  “She remembered to lock the back door and turn the electric fire out, so why should she forget to turn the light off …? But that’s not really the point I’m trying to make. What I want to know is, why was the light ever on? Look, old boy, she left her house sharp at six o’clock, directly she got the bogus call. Lighting-up time that evening was six thirty-one. What was she doing with a light on in the sitting-room before six?”

  “It was an exceptionally dark night,” I said.

  Lawson shook his head. “I don’t think that was the reason at all. I think she had to leave the light on, because if the house had been in darkness when Landon arrived the police would have realised she wasn’t at home and might have started wondering. As it was, no one suspected anything.”

  “She could have arranged for Barr to turn the light on when he arrived. That would have done just as well.”

  “What, and have those people opposite notice that the light had come on while she was out! That would have been far too risky.… It’s no use, old boy, everything fits. Even the fact that there weren’t any fingerprints on the door-knobs and key. An unknown enemy agent wouldn’t have needed to worry about leaving his fingerprints—but Barr and Clara would. And they knew it. They’re clever, those two!”

  I wasn’t impressed. “What you’re doing,” I said, “is deliberately giving a sinister explanation to a lot of quite innocent facts. You’ll be saying next that because there’s an opened tin of treacle in Clara’s pantry it proves she used some to break the window.”

  “As a matter of fact, old boy, there isn’t any treacle in her pantry—I looked. But she could easily have got rid of it.”

  “In fact, she’s guilty either way …! I’m sorry—I think the whole idea’s quite preposterous.… Apart from anything else, I doubt if Barr would have had time to dispose of a body.”

  “He’d have been free from half-past six, when Landon arrived, until about a quarter past eight, when he was called to Palmers Road. That’s getting on for two hours. Anyone could dispose of a body in two hours, if they knew exactly what they were going to do.”

  “Has anyone checked on what Barr was supposed to be doing during those two hours?”

  “Not yet, but believe me it’s high on my list.”

  “He was probably sitting at home watching TV and wishing he was with Clara.… It’s no good, I just can’t buy it. I simply don’t see Clara Waugh as a parricide.”

  “That’s because you don’t know her, old boy,” Lawson said earnestly. “I do—I told you, I’ve studied her. I’ve checked with her neighbours and I’ve checked with her friends. And if you want my frank opinion, she’s not much better than a high-class tart. She started off on the wrong foot with her marriage—her husband divorced her for adultery after seven months and she didn’t defend the suit. Some playboy was the co-respondent. And that house in Palmers Road hasn’t been exactly a convent, believe me—there’s been more than one dark figure creeping out at night by the back way. And some pretty wild parties there. At the very best, Clara’s a sexy, hard-drinking, good-time girl. That’s the consensus of opinion on her, anyway. I’m not surprised her father didn’t approve of the way she was carrying on. Do you know she hasn’t had a solid job in years? That actress stuff’s all baloney. She’s had a bit of training, of course—you can tell that from the wonderful act she’s been putting on. All those phony dinner preparations, and the sorrow-for-dear-father since! But she’s never had any really worthwhile jobs on the stage—just bit parts and the chorus in musicals—that kind of stuff. If our Clara’s anything, she’s a photographer’s model. Here—look at these …!” Lawson whisked a couple of postcards out of his pocket and passed them to me with a leer.

  “More trophies?” I said.

  “That’s right.”

  I looked at them. They were posed photographs of Clara Waugh, as nearly nude as made no odds. There was nothing at all suggestive or indecent about them. I thought they were rather nice.

  “Shapely arms she’s got!” Lawson said.

  “She’s got a lovely figure.”

  “Yes, she’s quite a dish.… You see what I mean, old boy, don’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t. Lots of girls do this sort of thing.”

  “Ah, but in Clara’s case one thing has led to another.…” He took the postcards back and put them carefully away in his pocket. “Then we come to Ronald Barr. I’ve been looking into him pretty closely, too. His background’s shrouded in mystery. He’s old school tie, to hear him talk, but I don’t know where he went to. He’s supposed to be some sort of commission agent, and he appears to do quite nicely—pleasant flat, runs a car, dresses well—but if you ask me he’s really living by his wits and would find ten thousand pounds most useful as a dowry. He certainly isn’t employed regularly by anyone.… I can tell you he’s not the sort of man I’d want my daughter to marry.”

  I grinned. “For the sake of the human race, let’s hope you never have a daughter.”

  “I resent that, old boy.”

  “I never met anyone before with a triple standard of morality, but you’ve certainly got it—one for women, one for men, and one for Lawson!”

  “Okay, you have your little joke.… I’ve got my theory.”

  “All you’ve got,” I said, “is a lot of unsubstantiated gossip and a hell of an imagination.… I think your theory stinks!”

  At that moment the News Room door burst open with a crash and someone shoute
d my name. I hurried in. Blair had a piece of copy in his hand. He looked as though he was about to burst open, too. “Read this, Curtis!” He thrust the copy at me. “My word, this is going to be a great story.…! What do you think of it—m’m?—m’m?” He was practically capering.

  The copy was an agency “flash,” catchlined MISSING SCIENTIST. It said: “A letter was delivered to the Ministry of Supply this morning from the kidnappers of Arthur Landon. The letter said the abduction was a commercial venture and the price of Landon’s life would be thirty thousand pounds. The letter was posted in Sheffield between 12.30 p.m. and 2.30 p.m. yesterday.”

  “Better get along to the Ministry right away, Curtis,” Blair said.

  I nodded, and went back into the Reporters’ Room and grabbed my coat and hat. Lawson had resumed his typing. I stepped up behind him and put the message across his typewriter. “All we need to know now,” I said, “is how Barr and Clara posted a letter in Sheffield when they were at a Ministry conference in London!”

  There was a moment of silence while Lawson read the message. Then he sighed, and pulled the memorandum out of his machine, and slowly tore it up.

  “Okay, old boy, you win!” he said. “Too bad—I thought I was really on to something.”

  Chapter Four

  The Ministry was still comparatively quiet when I got there, but more reporters were rolling up every minute and it wasn’t long before the waiting-room was jam-packed. There was no lack of excitement this time, and as the crowd swelled the hubbub grew terrific. Robson came out once and said we’d have to be patient—it seemed that Scotland Yard’s laboratory experts were still working on the letter and it might be some time before the tests were finished. Actually it was about an hour. Then we were invited in and the letter was shown to us.

  It consisted of a sheet of thin, unwatermarked, quarto-size typing paper, with a message made up of capital letters that had been cut from the smaller headlines of newspapers, and stuck on. It wasn’t a very original method of criminal communication, but it was none the less effective for that. According to Bailey, it gave nothing whatever away. The typing paper, he said, could have been bought anywhere and at any time, and was untraceable. There were no fingerprints, which meant that whoever had prepared the message had worn gloves—probably thin surgical gloves, so that the tiny capitals could be easily handled. The gum was the sort you could buy in bottles at any stationer’s. The letters were mainly in 24 point, but some in 36. They were in many different founts of type. Some of the type had been identified as the sort in use by particular newspapers, but the knowledge didn’t help at all. Cutting the letters out and then sticking them together to form the message would have been a fairly laborious business—the police estimated that it could have taken up to an hour. The envelope was a cheap buff one, of foolscap size—the sort used by the million in business offices. The address on the envelope was simply MINISTRY OF SUPPLY, LONDON, and consisted of the four words cut out whole from newspapers and stuck on. The letter had been posted in a Sheffield pillar-box some time after the 12.30 p.m. collection and before the 2.30 p.m. collection the previous day. It had been delivered by the first post that morning.