Dead Man Twice

by Christopher Bush

  “Unwell, do you think? Or just getting past it?”

  “Oh, he wasn’t so old as that. I shouldn’t put him at much over sixty. I sort of put it to him one day and he said he hadn’t been feeling any too fit… I think he was worrying about something.”

  “You don’t know what?”

  Hayles shook his head. “Haven’t the foggiest.”

  “Hm! And Usher. Trustworthy?”

  Hayles shrugged his shoulders. “Colourless sort of person. Adequate enough in his way. He hasn’t been with us long.”

  “So I understand. References all right?”

  “Oh quite!” The frigidity of the reply suggested that Hayles had inquired into them himself.

  “Both servants on good terms with themselves and each other?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “And with you… and Mr. France?”

  “Absolutely! He was easy-going—a bit too much so—and I; well, I’m not a frightfully difficult person.”

  Wharton chuckled. “I’m sure you’re not!” The chuckle tapered off and his voice acquired a delicate shade of regret. “Now about Mr. France. A terrible affair! Terrible!” He shook his head sadly, and Franklin, squinting between his fingers, saw Hayles lean forward, his head between his hands. Then the General’s voice took on a fictitious fortitude. “You’ll miss him… I shall miss him… everybody in the country will. But these things have to be faced… like men.” He shook his head again, and Franklin could imagine him watching Hayles like a cat at a mousehole. “You were surprised to learn he was here last night?”

  Hayles shook his head wearily. “No… I wasn’t surprised. I mean, he’d probably come round here after the show… then go out again.” He looked at Wharton. “Didn’t I understand you to say he shot himself as soon as he got back here?”

  “Well, that’s what we thought. But wasn’t he ending to go away?”

  “If he said so—as he did—then he was.”

  “Quite so! And do you happen to know where?”

  “Not the faintest idea. He could be very secretive at times.”

  “He didn’t tell you everything? I mean, you were more than a secretary, weren’t you? More like a friend, lending a helping hand.”

  “I don’t know.” He closed his eyes wearily, as if too tired to keep them open. “Perhaps I was… in way. But nobody tells everything—not even a man to his wife.”

  “That’s true enough!” Wharton laughed with extreme heartiness, then passed over a box which appeared from somewhere on the table. “Try one of these cigarettes, Mr. Hayles. I can recommend them.”

  Hayles shook his head and smiled faintly. Wharton’s voice changed to the broadly confidential. “Now a rather delicate matter… between ourselves, as two men of the world. In Mr. France’s bedroom was a huge—a really magnificent—bowl of roses. Were they there on the table when you left?”

  Franklin squinted again between his fingers. Hayles frowned reprovingly and his tone was abrupt. “I didn’t go into his room… never do! But why shouldn’t he have flowers there if he wanted to?” The tone changed to the resentful, and, as it were, final. “Oh, I see what you’re hinting at! And you can take it from me that you’re perfectly wrong.”

  Wharton was unruffled. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. People of the importance of Mr. France get all sorts of mud flung at them. But he wasn’t that sort.”

  “He wasn’t!” said Hayles grimly. “Any more than I… or yourself.”

  “Exactly!… But the world’s an unkind place. If I had my way I’d punish gossip like blackmail.” He paused for a moment and looked at the other, sitting there forlornly, head between his hands. “You’re dreadfully tired, Mr. Hayles. Just a couple of questions and we’re through. Do you happen to know any woman—or did Mr. France know one?—by the name of… Lucy?”.

  He took a second or two to raise his head and his face, to Franklin, looked perfectly ghastly.

  “So you’ve got hold of that, have you? Then why ask me?”

  “I’ve got hold of nothing!” protested Wharton. “All I’ve done is to ask you an honest, bona fide question. Who was Lucy?”

  “Lucy?… Well, she was a girl France got mixed up with at Cambridge.… Lucy Oliver I think the name was. Her father was a tobacconist.” It was easy to detect the sneer. “Designing little bitch—fluffy hair and all that. You know the type. Cost him—or his uncle—best part of five hundred to get clear.”

  “He compromised her… badly?”

  Hayles sneered again. “I think he made a pretty good job of it… I mean if you can compromise a woman of that sort.” Franklin winced at the crudeness, then took another quick look. Wharton’d better go steady.

  “And how long ago would that be?”

  “Four years or so.”

  “Do you know her address?”

  “Her then address, you mean?”

  Wharton nodded.

  “Just off Jesus Lane, I think. That’d find her—if she’s still there. I haven’t heard a word of her since… and I’m not particularly anxious to.”

  “You haven’t heard her name mentioned?”

  He looked up quickly. “Well, now you come to mention it, there were some ridiculous anonymous letters that came last week. I opened them of course, and passed them on.”

  “These anything like them?”

  Hayles looked at them, then leaned back in the chair as if dead beat. “I expect so. I told him not to be a fool… to put them in the fire.”

  “You didn’t take them seriously?”

  “Good God, no! Do you?” Wharton ignored the danger signal.

  “Well, perhaps I don’t… except that curious things happen in our profession. And in your considered opinion, Michael France had no reason whatever for taking his own life?”

  The result of that question made Franklin jump in his chair. It wasn’t a shriek—it was a kind of hysterical snarl.

  “Damn you, no! Stop your bloody questions! Stop them!” Then he broke down.

  Wharton motioned Franklin to stay where he was and moved round to where the overwrought man was sobbing, head between his hands. It was a ghastly sound in that room and Franklin felt a surge of pity rise to his throat.

  “There my boy… don’t take it to heart,” came Wharton’s voice. “Just pull yourself together. There!… That’s better now!”

  He got Hayles to his feet. “You’d like to be getting home. Bed’s the place for you to-night. We’ll have Usher see you round.”

  “No… I’m all right. I’m sorry… it’s… well, I’m a bit of a fool.”

  “No fool, Mr. Hayles. Just a man who does what most of us have to do.” That cryptic utterance over, he picked up the hat and coat from the oak settle and his voice began to trail away to the outer porch.

  “Let me lend you a hand.… You sure you won’t have one of us?… You’ve been perfectly invaluable… We’re most grateful . . Sure you can manage?… Good-bye, and a jolly good night’s rest.… Good-bye!… Good-bye!”

  Back in the room, the General changed his tone.

  “Who’s following him? Anybody?”

  “All arranged, sir.”

  “Print people still upstairs?”

  “As far as I know, sir.”

  “Right! Get back to headquarters straight away. Send Haliburton to Martlesham and another man to Chingford. Warn Lawrence for Cambridge and put a special man on from Liverpool Street onwards. Leave those notes with me… till you get back again.”

  “Very good, sir!” Norris set about his preparations like a man who not infrequently leaves for Brazil or Siberia at even shorter notice. Wharton pulled out his pipe.

  “What’s it like outside, George?”

  “Raining like hell,” said Wharton. “And it’s half-past eight.” He nodded to himself. “What do you think about your dear friend Hayles? Nice gutless sort of specimen? Either he’s lying… or Usher is.”

  Franklin compromised. “You know he’s had the devil of a shock.”

&nb
sp; “Shock be damned. If you came home and found your mother murdered—if you had one—what’d you do? Shriek… and throw a nice respectable faint?”

  “Lord knows! But I’m not Hayles.”

  “Hm! Well, ask that valet to make some more tea. When he brings it in, we’ll have a heart to heart talk. I’ll go and see how the P.M.’s going… Don’t rattle Usher, by the way. Treat him nice and gentle.”

  The General, pipe in full blast, ambled off to the lounge, looking like a harassed parent, going in search of his carpet slippers.

  CHAPTER VIII

  FAIR LADIES

  What Franklin was wondering was how, in the absence of Norris, Wharton was to take a transcript of Usher’s cross-examination. He knew the valet, as the only available evidence, had been questioned more than once that night, and he knew Wharton’s uncanny memory, but even then he saw no sense in trusting to nothing but that memory. What actually took place however, was no cross-examination at all but something that explained itself.

  “Thank you, Usher,” said Wharton, as the valet prepared to withdraw. Then he beamed over at Franklin. “Was there anything else we wanted to ask?” And as an afterthought, “Oh, yes! Just take a seat for a minute or two, Usher, will you?”

  He waved him to the easy chair and picked up Norris’ notes. “Mr. Hayles has given us quite a lot of information and I don’t mind telling you—as a man of discretion—very interesting information too. But I think it would be just as well if you confirmed, as it were, what Mr. Hayles has been telling us. Two witnesses are always better than one.” He leaned forward impressively. “Tell me, now. Where did you—as a man of the world—expect Mr. France was spending last night?”

  “I don’t know, sir. He said he was… he’d be away, sir.”

  “Ah! He said! That’s hardly the point. Speaking as man to man, where did you think he’d made up his mind to be?”

  “Well, sir, I knew he wasn’t going to the country because he’d given Ingham the week-end off.”

  “Ingham? Oh yes, the chauffeur. You mean, if he’d been going to the country, he’d have taken the car?”

  “Well, he always did, sir… so Somers said.”

  “Then you and Somers discussed why Mr. France was staying in town!”

  “No, sir. We didn’t discuss it. Somers just commented on it, sir; said he couldn’t understand why Mr. France had said he was going to the country, unless somebody else was giving him a lift.”

  “I see. Now if I remember yesterday morning correctly, this is what happened. You and Somers finished packing and Ingham came round with the car. Mr. Claire had called round and was going away and as soon as he’d gone, Mr. Hayles came down from his workroom upstairs and stood chatting with Mr. France in the dining-room. He left shortly afterwards and his last words were, ‘See you on Monday.’ Then you and Ingham carried out the trunks and Mr. France and Somers went into the lounge. When they came out, the car was ready and Ingham drove you and Somers to Liverpool Street where the fog was not quite so dense as it had been. Ingham told you the guvnor had given him till to-morrow morning off, so that he might go and see his people at Huntingdon and he could take the car. On the way to Ipswich, Somers said nothing to you as to why Mr. France took him into the lounge for those ten minutes, but you thought it might have been to discuss your successor, since you’d given notice that morning. That’s all correct, isn’t it?”

  “Quite correct, sir.”

  “Was it absolutely essential, do you think, for Mr. Hayles to go to Martlesham? I mean, couldn’t you and Somers have gone alone?”

  “I don’t know, sir. You see I don’t know exactly what Mr. Hayles went for.”

  “What did he do exactly?”

  “A gentleman called to see him with some papers on the Saturday—last night, and again this morning. He and Mr. Hayles went out together, sir.”

  “And Mr. Hayles really was annoyed at being kept?”

  “Very, sir! He… well, he said a few things, sir, and as soon as this gentleman had gone, sir, he hopped into the car and went off like mad… without any lunch.”

  “I see. Now let’s suppose, shall we? that Mr. Hayles needn’t have gone down there. Now think it over. Mr. Hayles was—shall we say?—got out of the way. So were you and Somers. So was Ingham. The temporary day-cook left on Friday and the charwoman doesn’t come till to-morrow. Doesn’t it strike you that Mr. France wanted to remain here in this house… alone?”

  The valet shuffled uneasily in his seat. Wharton took a good sup of the tea.

  “Well, it rather looks like it, sir.”

  “Hm! Those flowers in the bedroom. Were they there when you left?”

  “You didn’t hear them ordered by any chance?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Ever seen or heard of flowers in that bedroom before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then tell me, as a man of the world, why were those flowers put there… secretly?”

  Usher stammered inarticulately.

  “Speak out, man! Don’t be diffident! Mr. Hayles was asked much the same question.”

  “Then it looks as if he expected a lady, sir.”

  “Ah! That’s just it!” Franklin thought the way he rubbed his hands was perfectly ghoulish. “Now, Usher does that surprise you? Would it be anything unusual?”

  “I can’t say, sir… I know they always said he was—er—a bit that way inclined, sir.”

  “A bit too fond of the ladies?”

  “Well, yes, sir.”

  Wharton chuckled. “You and I may be the same… only we haven’t been found out! Ladies here frequently?”

  “Never, sir!”

  “What! Never! You’ve never known a lady come here!”

  “Well—er—one did come last week, sir.”

  “Ah! now we’re coming to it! Tell me all about it.”

  “It was one evening last week—Tuesday night, sir—when she called and asked to see Mr. France. I told her he was not at home and she said she’d wait. I told her she couldn’t do that as he mightn’t be in for hours, but she said she’d wait all the same, so I reported to Somers, sir, and he came and saw her off. I told Mr. France about it, sir, when I got round to the Paliceum—”

  “You were acting as his dresser?”

  “That’s right, sir. He’d been out all the evening and came straight there, and when I told him, he was furious, sir. Afterwards he told me and Somers she was on no account to be admitted.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Well, sir, she wasn’t… what you’d call a topnotcher, as they say. Smart and so on but… well, you know, sir.”

  “Quite! And any other ladies at any other time?”

  “None, sir… except Mrs. Claire, and she was different.”

  “Naturally! More like a sister.”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  “And no other ladies?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Somers ever tell you about any?”

  “No, sir. Somers never discussed Mr. France with me, sir. In his eyes, sir, whatever Mr. France did was perfect.”

  “I see… Well, before I forget it, Somers hadn’t been himself recently. He was losing his grip. Getting a bit childish, wasn’t he?”

  Usher’s face answered before he spoke. “What him, sir! He was a fitter man than I was! Smart and—”

  “Not an old dodderer.”

  “Not him, sir! Quiet now, that I grant you, sir… and a bit deliberate… but a healthy man, sir. At least, I never heard him complain.”

  “Exactly! I was making a mistake… as we all do at times, Usher.” He opened a small envelope that lay on the table and took from it half a dozen long, silky, golden hairs. “Talking of ladies, did you ever see the head these were on?”

  Usher was genuinely bewildered. “Never, sir!”

  “The woman who called here last Tuesday?”

  “I don’t know, sir… but I’m sure her hair was dark… at least it wasn’t that colour, sir.”

/>   “You did out the bedroom yourself on the Saturday morning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What did you do to the settee?”

  “The settee, sir? Ran the vacuum over it, sir, and over the cushions; then shook out the cushions and put them back.”

  “You’d have seen these hairs if they’d been there?”

  “I would, sir. And they couldn’t have dodged the vacuum.”

  “You’d swear to that?”

  “Yes, sir. Now… or anywhere, sir.”

  “Right! I’ll take your word for it.” He finished off the tea, produced a handkerchief and wiped his straggly moustache. “Well, Usher, you’ve helped us a good deal. And if you don’t mind a more personal question, you gave in your notice yesterday because you didn’t think you’d like Martlesham. Had you another post to go to?”

  “Yes, sir—Colonel Welling, sir, who I was with before. His man’s leaving him, sir, and I knew he’d have me back.”

  “I see. But you must understand this. For the present you remain here under my orders and when the end of the week comes, that’ll be time to see about your new post. No hostility to you mind; just the other way about. You’re the only witness we’ve got now Mr. Hayles is unfit. For instance, here’s something you can do for us. Here are three specimens of writing you might be able to identify. This one, marked ‘A’ which looks like a list of trains.”

  “That’s Somers’s writing, sir.”

  “Sure?”

  “Positive, sir. I’ve seen it hundreds of times.”

  “And this one?”

  “Mr. Hayles’s, sir. He used to give us written orders nearly every day. I can show you one if you like, sir.”

  “No it’s all right. What about this one?”

  Usher looked scared, then, seeing Wharton’s reassuring smile, merely puzzled.

  “It’s mine, sir. An old letter I was writing at the Paliceum and threw away. Somebody must have picked it up, sir.”

  “I didn’t!” explained Wharton blandly. “I just happened to run across it, that’s all, and wondered what it was.… You don’t want it again, I suppose?”

  The valet shook his head and Wharton screwed it into a ball and tossed it over to the fire. Franklin touched a match to it and watched it burn.