Dead Man Twice

by Christopher Bush

  For a good five minutes he stood there thinking it all out. During the week-end there had apparently been a burglary and yet the room where he stood was undisturbed. The rugs were in place on the parquet flooring, the drawers of tables and sideboard were shut and the room had a general air of tidiness. Then, had there been a burglary? Had there been after all, something in those anonymous letters? and had the entry been made with the idea of carrying out the threats? If so, what had the suicide of Somers to do with it? And why had the butler chosen the lounge to die in, rather than his own room or the kitchen? And if he couldn’t take his poison neat, why not in water or a cup of tea?

  Usher came in with the tray. “Your tea, sir. And you might like to know, sir, that… his clothes are upstairs, sir—on the bed in his room.”

  “Thank you, Usher,” began Franklin—then the front door knocker sounded, and there was a ringing at the bell.

  “You stay here!” said Franklin and nipped out. At the door was Inspector Cotter with the divisional surgeon and a plain-clothes man.

  “Good Lord, Franklin!” began Cotter.

  “That’s all right!” smiled Franklin. “I’ll tell you all about it in a minute. Evenin’ doc! Your man’s in there. Got any men, inspector?”

  “Couple just coming in.”

  “Good! I’d leave ’em here for a bit if I were you. This way, doc!”

  Menzies, a grizzled old veteran with as much respect for death as an undertaker’s hack, set about his examination. Franklin left the tea to cool and whispered to Cotter the lie of the land—with nothing said however about the reason for the visit but in its place a subtle accentuation of the terms of friendship. Cotter, perfectly amazed to hear in whose house he was, saw one interesting side to the tragedy.

  “Damn good publicity!” he whispered to Franklin. “The papers’ll be full of it. Won’t do me any harm—or you either.”

  Franklin winced. Menzies got up and blinked round at them. “When exactly did you first see him?”

  “Four o’clock—or just short.”

  Menzies raised his eyebrows. “Then he was only just dead!” and he grunted.

  “What was it?” asked Cotter.

  He fumbled for his pipe. “Cyanide. Smell it a mile off. What about putting him on that settee?”

  Cotter motioned to the plain-clothes man and between them they got the body round. Usher’s voice broke in quickly. “Excuse me, sir, but there’s something on the floor!”

  Franklin caught sight of it at the same time—a sheet of greyish notepaper, lying flat where the dead man must have fallen on it. Cotter picked it up, gave a chuckle and passed it over to Franklin.

  “The confession! They all do it.” He chuckled again. “Wondered where it was!”

  This is really the end of everything. I can’t go on any longer with things as they are. And they say life is worth living! Good-bye.

  “Cynical old devil!” went on Cotter, having another squint at it over Franklin’s shoulder. Franklin nodded mechanically with something else going through his mind. The paper was the same as that marked “A” of the specimens France had sent him—but the writing was different. This was full of character, carelessly as it appeared to have been dashed off.

  “Excuse me, sir!” came Usher’s voice again. “Would you allow me to have a look at that paper, sir?”

  Cotter glanced at Franklin who nodded and passed it over. One look and the valet’s face altered.

  “This isn’t Somers’s writing, sir!”

  “What!”

  Usher shook his head confidently. “It isn’t his writing, sir. It’s the master’s—Mr. France’s, sir!” “But—good God!” exploded Cotter. “It can’t be! How the hell could he have written it?”

  “That I don’t know, sir—but it’s his writing, sir.”

  Cotter’s eyes opened wide, then he began to panic a bit. “Harris! Go through his pockets and make an inventory. And mind how you handle things! Doc! would you mind getting out a report? And what about writing down those times, Jack, before you forget them?”

  “They’re all right,” said Franklin. “I know ’em off by heart. If you don’t mind my saying so, wouldn’t it be as well to have a look at that window?”

  They went over and Cotter felt the edges of the cut and wiped his fingers. “Some sort of sticky paper! When was it done? Last night?”

  “Lord knows!” said Franklin hoping to heaven France or somebody’d turn up before those anonymous letters had to be mentioned.

  “Looks probable,” said Cotter. “That chap”—nodding towards the settee—“didn’t suspect anything or he’d have turned up the blind. By the way, Mr. Usher, why were the blinds turned down?”

  “It was dark on Saturday morning, sir, and the lights had to be lit.”

  “Hm!” said Cotter, then scowled. “Suppose that burglary couldn’t have had anything to do with his doing himself in?”

  “Too deep for me!” said Franklin.

  Cotter nodded ponderously, then took a squint out of the window. “The fog’s going. And it’s raining. Harris! when you’ve finished there, go outside and scout round for that piece of glass. You have finished? Right-ho then! Doc! would you mind bringing that report outside and I’ll close this place up.”

  The party moved out to the drawing-room and a man was put on duty by the door. “Now about this burglary, Mr. Usher. Anything missing from here?”

  The valet ran his eyes round the room and reported everything normal.

  “What’s that room there?”

  “The cloak-room, sir.”

  “Right! We’ll have a look inside.”

  The three passed into a room whose flooring of black and white tiles struck icily cold. Cotter looked inside each of the lavatories, turned on the water in the basins and poked about among the coats and hats and all the accumulated garments that cumber the average cloakroom—and found nothing at all unusual.

  “Hm! Let’s have a look in the next room.”

  In the dining-room, everything appeared to be normal. A pair of valuable Sheffield candlesticks were in their place on the mantelpiece and the two silver salvers stood on the sideboard.

  “Damn funny!” said Cotter. “What about upstairs? Anything valuable there? And what about going through that chap’s belongings in his bedroom?”

  “Mr. Somers’s bedroom is this way, sir,” said Usher quietly and showed through to the kitchen. Just inside, he seemed to hesitate for a moment, then made up his mind. “It sounds rather silly to report such a thing, sir, but one of the tea towels is missing. It should have been on that dryer,” and he pointed to the swivel arm above the draining board.

  Cotter laughed. “Damn funny! You mean the burglar broke in to pinch a towel!”

  “You quite sure it was there?” asked Franklin earnestly.

  “Dead sure, sir. I was the last one out of the kitchen Saturday, sir, and I put two towels out specially, sort of finished the place off, sir.”

  “Exactly! And, let me see, the only one who could have been using this room was Somers, as soon as he me in. The sink was wet, wasn’t it?”

  “It was, sir.”

  “Then what did Somers wet it for? The kettle wasn’t filled, was it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then he might have been having a drink of water. Look round and see if you can find a wet tumbler or anything.”

  As Usher began his examination, Franklin stood rubbing his hands and frowning away into space, Cotter came over and had a good look at the sink. But when Usher reported no sign of anything that had been used, Franklin whispered something and then gave the valet his orders.

  “You slip off upstairs, Usher, will you, and see if anything has been disturbed anywhere. Also have a look in Somers’s room in case that towel’s there. If there’s any sign of burglary, let us know at once.”

  “We didn’t want him here seeing everything there is to see,” explained Franklin quietly. “Now then, what about it? Did you get that stench of chlo
ride of lime? What was that poured down for if it wasn’t to disguise the smell of something else? And whatever that something else was, it was contained in something that had to be washed out and then wiped dry… and then the towel had to be taken away. It may be far-fetched but it’s worth trying—don’t you think so?”

  Cotter agreed. “You find me a glass and I’ll get a spanner out of the car.”

  In less than a minute he was back and then Franklin saw the reason for the spanner. Cotter unscrewed the bottom of the U-trap under the sink and while Franklin held the glass, drained off carefully every drop of water. Cotter held it lovingly to the light.

  “There we are. If anything was poured down, there ought to be a trace or two inside this. Find a bottle, will you, and we’ll get it ready for the Yard.”

  Franklin groped about in the dresser cupboard while Cotter replaced the trap and then just as Cotter was putting the corked bottle in his pocket, Usher’s steps were heard at the top of the stairs—then he came down with a scurry. It was not the bursting open of the door that made the other two turn round quickly—it was the queer sort of noise he was making, as if he were trying to find words that wouldn’t come. Then he did manage to speak.

  “Mr. France, sir!… upstairs, sir!… he’s dead!”

  CHAPTER VI

  A FOOL DIETH

  As the valet stood there, motioning feebly with his hand towards the stairs, Cotter’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. Then he darted forward.

  “Don’t stand there gaping like a fool!” He pushed him through the open doorway. “Show us where—and pull yourself together!”

  Franklin followed on their heels to the left at the top landing, then from the servants’ quarters along a corridor to a region of rugs and ornamental furniture. Usher pointed to a door, and Cotter, six foot and thirteen stone, brushed him aside like a fly. Inside the bedroom, huddled on the rose and fawn silkiness of the carpet, lay a figure on its back. Two feet from the fingers of the outstretched left arm was a tiny revolver. On the forehead was a blackish stain and on the white front of the shirt, a small, red smear.

  Cotter stopped short and looked round at Franklin.

  “Is it him?” The voice sounded incredulous.

  Franklin’s voice sounded to himself as though it came from some remote corner of the room.

  “It’s France all right… and he’s dead… by the look of him.”

  “Christ!” said Cotter. “Christ Almighty!” and stared.

  Franklin felt himself move forward and feel the cheek—cold as ice and the limbs set as if in plaster. Then he pulled himself together.

  “Been dead for hours.” He shook his head. “It’s a hellion! A regular hellion!” What he was thinking was hard to say; perhaps of the Friday night; perhaps of the contrast—the man gloriously alive and the figure sprawled foolishly on the carpet.

  “What the hell’d he want to do it for?” asked Cotter angrily, as if putting a personal grievance to the world in general. “First world beater we’ve had for years and he blows his bloody brains out!” Then he stopped—the situation beyond him.

  “Better get up Menzies,” suggested Franklin. “Shall I give him a holler?” and he went to the top of the stairs that led to the drawing-room. In half a minute Menzies was up, blinking away through his glasses.

  “This way, Doc!” said Franklin quietly. But Menzies refused to be hurried. He actually had to knock out his pipe on the landing and inside the room, merely clicked his tongue.

  “Another of ’em! Wish to God they’d send me a postcard!”

  As he knelt over the dead man, his body masked his hands and little could be seen of what he was doing or what he was looking for.

  “Fine figure of a man!”

  “So he ought to be!” snapped Cotter. “He’s Michael France—the boxer!”

  “Is he really now!” said Menzies with tantalising inconsequence. “France the boxer! Well, he’s a damn bad shot!”

  “Bloody old fool!” whispered Cotter angrily. Franklin nodded and went on watching. Menzies’ hands were now visible; he was feeling at the base of the skull. Then he examined it closely and moved back the hair with his fingers. Then he had a good look at the table by which the body was lying and when he did get to his feet he took out his pipe and stoked it up with a deliberation that was certainly as provoking as he intended.

  “How long’s he been dead?” asked Cotter.

  “What I should call a devil of a long while… in a world of sudden changes. Say since well before midnight.”

  “Then he didn’t go away for the week-end as—”

  “And what’s more,” went on Menzies, “I want a consultation, so you’d better get on to headquarters, and take my tip, you’ll get the General and the whole of his circus.”

  “What’s the idea? Didn’t he shoot himself?”

  “Don’t you worry about that. Haven’t I told you I want a consultation?” He peered across to the corner. “Is that his hat and coat on that chair?” and without waiting for an answer, “Well, I’ll wait downstairs. I’ve had no tea and it’s damn little supper I’ll get by the look of it.”

  Franklin suddenly missed Usher. “You seen him, Cotter? Expect he’s in the kitchen. Get him to make you a cup of tea, Doc.”

  When he’d gone, Cotter fairly exploded. “Did you ever see such an irritable old swine to work with? Do you know, he makes me that damn wild—” and he raised his hands to heaven. “What’d we better do? Get hold of the General?”

  “I most decidedly should. If it’s a mare’s nest, the Doc’ll have to stand the racket. Oh, by the way, don’t tell him I’m here.”

  Left to himself, Franklin ran his eye round the room. Behind him by the shorter wall was a walnut tallboy, flanked by two walnut chairs, on one of which, furthest from the door, were the dead man’s hat and coat. In the centre of the longer wall, on his left, was the marble fireplace with electric fire, and in its left-hand recess was a writing table and in its right, a dressing table with glass top and elaborate mirror. Facing him at the far end was a bed of gorgeously figured walnut whose rose and fawn eiderdown blended with the old rose of the window curtains that reached from ceiling to floor. On one side of the bed was a stand-cupboard on which was a reading lamp. By the right hand wall was a cushioned settee between two easy chairs in tapestry.

  The room as a whole was one that clamoured for attention. Whoever was responsible for its decoration knew the value of mirrors for the repetition of colour. There were four of them on the walls; one a huge concave circle that showed the room as if it were a Dutch interior. The pictures, too, seemed a trifle flaunting for a bedroom and the whole thing was somehow unmanly—not necessarily effeminate but inclined to the sybaritic and indefensibly opulent. And there was one garish note that set one’s teeth on edge; not the large bowl of blood-red roses so much as the table on which they stood—a gilt, Empire, tawdry thing whose legs ran parallel to the dead man’s body and touched his drawn-up arm.

  Indeed, as Franklin’s eyes fell again to the rigid figure on the carpet, he felt the whole thing to be strangely impossible. It was incredible! Why should France want to die? with the ball at his feet and the world for an audience. If Menzies was hinting at something different from suicide, Franklin felt himself with him. Who then killed France and staged the suicide? The writer of the anonymous letters? The man who’d made the burglarious entry through the lounge? And if so, France knew him, or how could he have approached so close as to shoot point blank? But if France knew him, why had he been forced to enter through the window? Franklin shook his head. Everything was contradictory—unless Menzies was wrong after all and France had committed suicide. And then to complete the circle, why in the name of common-sense should he want to commit suicide?

  Then a quaint thought to end it all; a thought springing out of nowhere and summing it all up—“Died Abner as a fool dieth.” What Menzies hinted must be right. If that man killed himself, then he killed himself like a fool. And even the ma
nner of the killing would have been foolish—that tiny pistol, like a toy; surely the last thing a man like Michael France would choose. In those few moments that he spent there, that was all Franklin could see—the incredibility, the absurdity of everything. There was scarcely even a sense of personal loss—it was all too preposterous for that, and it was not till he got out of that boudoir sort of room with its crimson roses that he began to recall the dead man as he knew him and to feel a vague sort of pathos.

  On the stairs he met Cotter with a man for duty outside the bedroom door. In the dining-room Menzies was writing his notes and sucking away at a cold pipe.

  “Hallo, Doc!” said Franklin. “Ordered your tea?”

  Menzies peered over his spectacles. “Couldn’t find the damn fellow anywhere. Wasn’t he upstairs with you?”

  “No! He’s probably in the kitchen. You’ve looked there? Very funny!” and off Franklin stalked. Menzies appeared to be right. The valet had gone out and the bowler hat that had been on the dresser when the three of them were last there, had gone too.

  Franklin swore to himself as he reviewed the suspicions that came tumbling back to his mind. Extraordinarily cool customer he’d been as a witness; positively judicial as a matter of fact. Somewhere, too, he’d seen him before, though he couldn’t place him at the moment. Surely he couldn’t have bolted! That’d be a disaster the General wouldn’t be likely to overlook. With a sudden tremor of apprehension Franklin was about to slip up the back stairs to make a quick examination of the bedroom, when outside there was a sound of a step. He stepped back quickly into the passage with the door just ajar. And only in time.

  The handle of the outside door was turned furtively as the valet peeped into the room. A second and he slipped inside and closed the door quietly. Back on the dresser went the hat; the fawn raincoat was pushed hurriedly into the dresser cupboard; then he mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. Next came a rapid adjustment of his hair. A good rubbing of the wet boots with a duster, a flick or two of the black coat, then his expression changed from the anxious to the deferential. Usher was ready to report in the drawing-room and in that half-minute two distinct personalities had been on view.