Dead Man Twice

by Christopher Bush

  Franklin moved quietly back to the dining-room, then made a fairly obvious approach to the kitchen. As he entered, Usher made play with the kettle. Franklin picked up the bowler hat, shook the wet off on the floor, then replaced the hat with elaborate care.

  “Still raining outside then, Usher?”

  “Yes, sir.” A limpness became apparent.

  “By the way, weren’t you told on no account to leave the house?”

  “I don’t remember it, sir.”

  Franklin’s eyes opened at the blatancy of the denial. “I see. You don’t remember. Well, you remember it now! And keep that kettle on the boil. Dr. Menzies wants some tea at once—and make it for three while you’re about it!”

  Usher’s “Very good, sir!” showed no trace of rancour or irony.

  “And what exactly were you doing out of the house?”

  The limpness became more apparent. “I’m afraid I wasn’t feeling any too well, sir… so I thought I’d try a breath of fresh air. It’s—er—been a great shock to me, sir.”

  “You’ll get a bigger one if you stir an inch from this house again,” said Franklin and he made an exit that was hardly as dignified as he intended. A cool customer that! Wharton’d twist the innards clean out of him when he got him alone. No use tackling him now about where he’d been; he’d be bound to have a plausible tale ready.

  Over the tea, Menzies appeared far more reconciled to an evening’s duty and things seemed much easier altogether as the three of them sat waiting for the arrival of Wharton and the Yard experts—the circus as Menzies had called them. If his mind had not been turned topsy-turvy with the suddenness and the personal nature of the terrible discoveries, Franklin might have regarded that prospect with something approaching complacency. Before that nervous breakdown that had led to his leaving the Yard, he had worked for a couple of years under the old General, as everybody called him. Since then they’d worked together more than once and altogether, Wharton had acquired a status that was avuncular generally and occasionally paternal. And as for the business in hand, Franklin couldn’t for the life of him see how he was to be kept out of the inner circle of official inquiry. After all, before that damnable affair had happened, he’d been retained, as it were, to inquire into certain happenings that France considered suspicious. The fact that France was dead—and exactly how remained to be proved—was surely no release from that retainer. In any case he held in his hand, as he realised, if not all the aces at least enough cards to make the game difficult for a newcomer.

  Cotter also was less on the jump than he had been and as he poured out the doctor’s second cup of tea, he apparently thought the moment favourable for the preparation of defences against the big man’s arrival.

  “I don’t see, you know. Doc, how they can blame you for removing that body. Everything was all right, on the face of it.”

  “I don’t give a damn what they think” said Menzies. “We moved him and there’s an end of it. If he wants photographs, we can shove him back again. And the prints are all there.”

  “What’s your own idea. Doc?” asked Franklin deferentially. “Do you think Somers did himself in?”

  “Why not? The only suspicious thing is that confession, and that’s your job of work to find how it got to the wrong man.”

  “That’s right!” said Cotter. “But absolutely in confidence, Doc; what made you want another opinion about… him upstairs?”

  Menzies pursed his lips and frowned. “Well, keep it to yourselves. Not a word, mind you, till I’ve seen the General! Was France left-handed?”

  “No!” said Franklin promptly.

  “Well, he shot himself on the left side of the head. Talking without technicalities, the bullet entered his forehead plumb between the eyebrow and his hair—then travelled towards the left ear. That’s a devilish awkward position to get your hand into! You try it and see.”

  Both tried it—and agreed.

  “The bullet might have missed the brain altogether, the angle it was. You might have thought he was trying to wound himself—not kill himself. If he wanted to blow his brains out, there was only one thing to do—to put the muzzle into his mouth or against the temple and make a clean job of it. The way that chap up there did the job was what you might expect from a contortionist… when he was tight!”

  “Pretty point blank, wasn’t it?” asked Franklin.

  Menzies shrugged his shoulders. “Further off than usual. Say six to eight inches. Also, there was something else that was unusual. There’s a contusion at the base of the skull—a very slight one; where he fell presumably. But the thing is, could he have got any sort of a contusion at all, falling on that carpet. It’s like a cushion!”

  “He hit the table.”

  “Did he? Then why didn’t he knock it endways? And why did he fall so mathematically parallel to it? And another thing. That chap Somers had been in the room!”

  “Good God!” exclaimed Franklin. “How’d you know that?”

  “There’s a smear—a tiny one—on the shirt front. Most of the bleeding was internal—cerebral haemorrhage. Only a very small amount seeped out to the cheek. Supposing there had been a tiny drop that fell on the shirt front, it’d still have been a drop, even if it were touched. But this is a smear. You see the difference don’t you. Somebody—and it could only have been Somers—found the body, touched the wound and without knowing his fingers had any blood on ’em, put a hand on the shirt front to feel the heart. I shouldn’t say the smear’s sufficiently defined enough to be printable, by the way.”

  “Just a minute, Doc,” said Franklin. “As I see it—assuming that France didn’t therefore kill himself—it needn’t have been Somers after all. It might have been one of two other people; either the person whom Usher and I heard in the house when we came in, or else the man who actually did the killing and the faking of the suicide.”

  That information about a man heard in the house was news to Menzies, but before he could put the question, Cotter had a theory. “Between ourselves,” he said, “what about this for a solution? France shot himself—or was shot; it doesn’t matter which for a—”

  “Oh yes it does!” put in Franklin. “If he was shot, why did he leave a confession?”

  “There might have been a suicide pact for all we know” went on Cotter. “France might have carried out his part of the contract first and then the other party might have balked. However, assume he did commit suicide—just as a start-and that he left the confession. Somers came in this afternoon and went upstairs with his things. He tapped on France’s door to see if he was in, then had a look inside and saw the body and the confession. He was terribly upset and felt a bit queer, so he came down to the lounge to get a drink, bringing the confession with him. Then he got so overwrought that he did himself in. I’ll bet he was an old servant—been with France for years.” Full of the idea, he gave Usher a holler. “Will you tell us how long Somers had been with Mr. France?”

  “A long while, sir. I believe he was with Mr. France’s father, then with his uncle; and when Mr. France took this house, sir, he got Somers to come here with him.”

  “How along ago was that?”

  “About two years, sir.”

  “And how long have you been with him?”

  “A fortnight, sir.”

  Franklin looked up quickly, then turned his head away.

  “Only a fortnight! Who were you with before that?”

  “Colonel Welling, sir—of Stanhope Street.”

  “I see. And Somers—he was very fond of Mr. France?”

  “Very, sir… and proud of him… as we all were.”

  “Right! Thank you, Mr. Usher.” Cotter gave a series of satisfied nods at the valet’s back. “It mayn’t be much of a theory, but it ain’t so bad for a start. Hallo! That’s them!”

  Menzies wiped his mouth, groped for his pipe, then put it back again. Franklin got his back to the fire and waited for things to happen.

  Wharton came in blinking and wiping t
he moisture from his heavy moustache and looking more like a steady-going old paterfamilias than ever. On his heels came Norris of headquarters and a regular platoon of lesser troops—photographers, finger-print and plain-clothes men. There was a staccato outburst of greetings, then Menzies and his colleague moved off upstairs. Then Wharton appeared to notice Franklin for the first time.

  “Hallo, John! What are you doing here?”

  Franklin gave him a half-minute outline.

  “Good! I’ll be with you as soon as I can, then we’ll talk things over.”

  But that turned out to be well over an hour later. As Franklin sat by the drawing-room fire, feeling rather out of it, the house resembled a furtive beehive. People would come and go; in and out of the rooms and up and down the stairs. Most of the traffic seemed to be to the dining-room where the refectory table became a temporary museum. All the time there was telephoning and the whirr of the bell. There was a murmur of voices from minor conferences. Usher was summoned twice from the kitchen. Then, finally, after one of his trips upstairs, Wharton came over for a word.

  “Sorry to keep you so long, John. We’re just getting the decks cleared so that we know just where we stand. Would you mind having a look at these times of yours Cotter gave me, so as to see if they’re all right?”

  After that another half-hour. The ambulance drew up and Menzies and his colleague left with their double load. Then the photographers left, and Cotter and Harris, and the house became reasonably settled. A last sound of telephoning and Wharton came in, stoking up his pipe.

  “Do you know a Kenneth Hayles? Writes detective stories, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes—I know him pretty well, but I haven’t read his books.”

  “He’s coming along soon and I’d rather like you to be here at the time. I’m expecting him to clear things up a bit.” He took the easy chair opposite Franklin’s. “Would you mind telling me all about how you got mixed up in this?”

  “Hasn’t Cotter told you?” Franklin asked sarcastically.

  “Never mind about that. I want to hear what you’ve got to say.”

  Franklin plunged in. This time nothing was left out, from a sketch of the Friday evening to the happenings of the afternoon, and even his own deductions.

  “You got those facsimiles with you?” Wharton asked.

  Franklin pulled them out and spread them on the occasional table. As Wharton took out his glasses, there was the sound of a step on the gravel.

  “He’s coming! Put them away—here, in the drawer! You do the introductions.”

  “What’s he know?” whispered Franklin.

  “Nothing… as far as we know. Only what you told Claire.”

  The key was heard in the outside lock and Franklin moved away from the fireplace, leaving Wharton in the background. Hayles, in felt hat and grey overcoat, peeped round the screen and looked perfectly staggered to see Franklin.

  “Hallo! What on earth are you doing here?”

  Franklin smiled and held out his hand. “Just happened to come along to see France.”

  “Yes, but what’s all the row about? Claire was telling me over the phone that something had happened to Somers. He didn’t…” He caught sight of Wharton.

  “Come along over!” said Franklin cheerily. “George, this is Mr. Hayles… Superintendent Wharton… of the Big Four… Scotland Yard.”

  Hayles put out his hand mechanically. Wharton grasped it, though Franklin would have sworn he was feeling his pulse!

  “How’d you do, Mr. Hayles. It’s a godsend, your coming round. Take a seat, will you?” and he drew up a chair.

  Hayles looked as if he’d blundered by accident into the Zoo. “I’m afraid I don’t quite—er—”

  “That’s all right!” said Wharton reassuringly. “We just want you to help us. You see, since you were here last, things have been happening… here… in this house. Mr. France is dead!”

  “Dead… How?”

  “Shot himself… in his bedroom.”

  Hayles drew in his breath and his eyes opened wide. He made as if to speak, then moistened his lips.

  “And that’s not all. Somers is dead too… He poisoned himself… in the lounge!” Wharton paused for several seconds, with his eyes full on Hayles’s face, then he went on deliberately. “That’s why we want to see you!”

  Franklin leaped forward but he was too late. Hayles gave a sort of moan and lurched sideways in the chair; then slithered to the floor in a dead faint.

  * * * * *

  A few seconds later, with Norris looking after the white-faced Hayles and Usher searching frantically for brandy, Franklin drew Wharton over to a corner.

  “I say, George; that was a damn silly thing to do, talking to a man like that! You were virtually accusing him of doing… something.”

  Wharton raised his eyebrows. “I was! Nothing of the sort! All I meant was, we wanted him here to lend us a hand.”

  Franklin was not deceived by the air of injured innocence.

  “Then you made a damn clumsy hand of it!” was his comment. “If you don’t get another word out of him, don’t blame me!”

  CHAPTER VII

  HAYLES GETS RATTLED

  It was half an hour later before Hayles, after a stiff brandy, a cold sponging and the gradual reception of the details of the extraordinary tragedy, announced that he was all right, that he was sorry he’d made such an ass of himself, and that he was ready to give all the information he could. Wharton seemed to understand. Perhaps the announcements that greeted Hayles on his arrival had been a bit too sudden, especially as he and France were on such intimate terms, and old Somers a sort of ever-present feudal retainer.

  The setting in the dining-room was calculated to put him at his ease. Wharton sat at the refectory table—the exhibits not too conspicuous—and Hayles in a vast easy chair in which he was almost lost. On one side of the fire sat Norris, back to the light and ready for a shorthand transcript; on the other, Franklin with elbow on the arm of his chair, sat looking into the fire. As the light was arranged, Wharton and Hayles occupied the illuminated foreground; the others were away in the shadowed distance.

  Wharton began in his best consolatory voice. “Of course you understand, Mr. Hayles, we don’t want you to be worried. If you don’t feel like going on, stop me at once. You’re our principal hope now—so to speak—and we want you to be in a fit condition to help us.”

  Hayles murmured indistinctly something about understanding and all that.

  “That’s capital!” said Wharton, nodding vigorously. “We’re going to be very grateful to you before this case is over. And now, Mr. Hayles, these are the times Usher gave as those of you and he and Somers leaving Martlesham. Are they perfectly correct?”

  Hayles looked the paper over. “There’s one mistake. Usher and Somers may be correct as far as I know, but I was at Ipswich at 12.15, not before.”

  “That’s all right,” said Wharton, reaching for the paper. “The point, as a matter of fact, is this. Usher said you were very annoyed at not being able to get away from Martlesham earlier, this morning. We hoped—it sounds preposterous, I know—that if the reason you were anxious to get away was that you were fearing something had happened to Mr. France, then of course you’d be able to tell us—well, what that something was that you were worrying about.”

  “If Usher told you that, he was wrong,” said Hayles curtly. “I was fed up with Martlesham—I always am. That’s all.”

  Wharton waved his hand airily. “We’re not paying two hoots of attention to that—or to you either. Even if we were, your word’s good enough. But, we’ve got to inquire into people’s movements. It’s like setting a chess board out—how the pieces stood at a vital moment in the game, if you follow what I mean. And now, what time did you get to Martlesham yesterday?”

  “Martlesham? I can’t quite say… I had tea in Ipswich, at the Great White Horse, just about four. I should say I got to Martlesham at half-past five. I know it was hellish dark.”


  “The others were there?”

  “Oh yes… they were there.”

  “And they spent the night there?”

  “That’s right. I sat yarning with Morse—he’s Mr. France’s masseur—and Forbes—the chap who runs the farm—till about eleven. Then I saw Somers and Usher about the morning’s arrangements.”

  “Weather foggy there?”

  “Oh lord no! Beautiful starry night. Bit of mist this morning but it soon cleared off.”

  “That reminds me. When you approached town to-day, where’d the fog start?”

  “Well, I cut across country to Epping. You see, it was getting a bit thick there. Took me an awful time pushing on to Chingford… rather dangerous too, and as there happened to be a train leaving for Liverpool Street, I garaged my car right against the station and came on. I thought it’d be safer.”

  “Exactly! And what time’d that be? You see, we want to get a line on the others.”

  Hayles frowned. “Let me see. Chingford’s the terminus, so the train started punctually. One-fifty, I think it was. Also we didn’t seem to stop too much. I know it was just about four when I got to St. John’s Wood.”

  “What’d you do then?”

  “Oh—er—went straight to my flat; tidied up a bit and pushed off to the club. There was a man I rather wanted to see and I thought I’d probably miss him. As a matter of fact I did miss him, so I had tea and hung about. Then I felt a bit bored, so I rang up Peter Claire to see if he was in and he told me I was wanted urgently round here, about Somers. By the time I’d asked for details, he’d rung off.”

  “Good! And now about Somers. A reliable fellow?”

  “Oh, quite!… though perhaps, now you speak of it… I mean I oughtn’t to say so under the circumstances, but—er—I rather thought recently he was losing his grip.”

  “Really! That’s exceptionally interesting! Exactly how?”

  “Well—er—I often had to give him instructions and he—well, he used to forget things; used to act sort of funny; you know, sort of moon about the place.”