Dead Man Twice

by Christopher Bush

  “That’s all then, Usher, thanks, and we’re very much obliged to you.… Any chance of a scratch meal in about half an hour’s time? I shall probably be here all night.”

  Wharton sat quietly, listening to the receding steps. Then he grunted and pulled out his pipe. “What’s your idea about that fellow?”

  “I thought he’d the devil of a job making up his mind just what he ought to tell you and what he didn’t want to. And he did it damn well.”

  “Which do you believe? Him or Hayles?”

  Franklin rubbed his chin. “Now you’re asking. But why shouldn’t both be partly lying?”

  “Exactly!” He shook his grizzled old head. “You know the old song? ‘A Boy’s Best Friend is His Mother?’ Well, the best friend for people like you and me is a liar! Prove that and you’ve got him! Reverse what he emphasises is right, and wash out what he tells you is wrong. Hayles says he wasn’t in a hurry to get away from Martlesham—therefore he was. He says Somers was just the man to commit suicide—therefore he didn’t—”

  “And knowing all the time that he didn’t!”

  Wharton shot a look at him. “Hm! I don’t think we can go as far as that… yet.”

  “But it’s the logical conclusion!”

  “That may be—but even we don’t know that… at the moment. To come to that, we don’t know whether Hayles was lying. It might have been Usher.”

  “I wish you’d keep to one side of the argument,” said Franklin. “First you argue one way, then you right-about-face and prove yourself wrong.”

  “Well, there’s some merit in being able to do that,” said Wharton complacently.

  “Yes, and the devil of a lot of muddle,” retorted the other. “And that reminds me. You didn’t say anything to Usher about slipping out of the house.”

  “I know I didn’t. That was deliberate. I want to give him all the rope in the world. If he slips out again, he’ll be followed. And we have an idea what he was actually doing. There’s a telephone box on the other side of the road. We’re trying to trace a call.”

  That mollified Franklin somewhat. “Personally,” he said, “I think it wasn’t he who was lying. Keeping something back if you like.”

  “What about that question of women? Whose statement are you to believe? Hayles’s or Usher’s?”

  Franklin laughed. “You try to hot-stuff me like that! Calling Usher’s a statement! All you did was to drag a half-hearted sort of admission out of him. You put the words into his mouth!”

  Wharton shook his head. “Oh, no! You didn’t see his face as I saw it. He knew why France stayed in town last night! I’m open to bet you ten to one I’m right.” He gave Franklin a quick look. “For instance, I’ll show you something. Let’s have a look in France’s bedroom again.”

  Upstairs in the room, the finger-print people were just finishing and, according to Wharton, their next objective was the bathroom. Just inside the door he held Franklin back and waved his arm contemptuously.

  “Well, what do you think of it all?”

  Franklin made a face. “To tell the truth, I don’t know. It’s rather showy.” Then some sense of loyalty to the dead man produced an addendum. “But it’s a damn fine room all the same!”

  Wharton snorted. “Fine room! Shall I tell you my idea of it? It’s the show room of a super-brothel—”

  “Hi! Steady on, George! Don’t be crude!”

  “Crude be damned. And crudity’s better than humbug. I tell you this room has something rotten about it. And you know it… only your idea of what France ought to have been is making you a damn bad detective!”

  Franklin said nothing for a moment or two, then, “Perhaps you’re right. Mind you, I admitted from the first that I didn’t like that gilt table—”

  “Quite so!” interrupted Wharton. “It looked out of place. And you might be interested to know that it came from the drawing-room and was there when Usher left yesterday morning. France, so the prints tell us, took it upstairs himself. That bowl there, came from the dining-room. France must have filled it with water and brought it up here for the roses. Now come over here!”

  He moved over to the bedside table-cupboard and opened the door. Then, like a conjuror producing things from a hat, he took out one article after another.

  “Electric kettle—all ready filled. Teapot—with the tea already in it. Milk. Bowl of sugar. Tin of biscuits. Look at ’em! And the maker’s name! Cost half a quid if they cost a penny.” He put them all back again. “Now you know what Usher knew—why France wanted to have this house to himself.”

  Franklin nodded but said nothing. Wharton turned half right.

  “Something else. Those cushions on the settee had been disarranged as if somebody’d sat on ’em. That’s where we found those hairs I showed Usher.”

  Without waiting for comment, he moved out of the door and down the stairs. When they’d got to their chairs again, Franklin was the first to speak.

  “Damned if I know what to make of it! The pistol.… Are the woman’s prints on it?”

  “France’s only… and blurred ones.”

  “Pistol and bullet agree?”

  “Looks like it. They’re on that now… at headquarters.”

  Wharton sat sucking away at his cold pipe. Franklin, after a minute’s scowling away at the fire, suddenly looked up.

  “I can’t make head or tail out of the woman business but I can see what’s in those samples of writing. France believed one of the men in his house was responsible for the anonymous threats and thought the writing would show me which one. That’s obvious, I admit.”

  “Well, it’s true… that’s the main point. By the way, we’d better take over all that inquiry for you as part of our routine. Suppose you don’t mind?”

  “Not in the least. And talking of writing, where was that note written that was found under Somers’s body? At the writing table in France’s bedroom?”

  “One minute, young fellow!” said Wharton. “What are you assuming? That Somers wrote it? Or France? Or neither?”

  “That France wrote it—as Usher said.”

  “I see. And what exactly were you going to deduce?”

  “Well—er—” Then he laughed. “To tell the truth, I don’t precisely know—except possibly this. Where France wrote it, there he died. He wouldn’t go running all over the house with a thing like that in his hand. Just after he wrote it, he’d shoot himself—if he did shoot himself. If he wrote it in his bedroom, then I should say he committed suicide—and, of course, there.”

  “Funny you should say that,” said Wharton. “Come into the drawing-room and I’ll show you something else.”

  He halted by the cloak-room door.

  “See that bookcase? It’s a secretaire bookcase. This top drawer pulls down… like this… to form a writing desk. Here’s the pen the confession was presumably written with. The ink’s gone to the Yard. This leather blotter case had in it practically a new sheet of blotting paper; on it, in reverse, the last letters of the confession. That’s gone to the Yard too. The note was almost certainly written here. How it got into Somers’s hands, we don’t know.”

  “Would it be too amazing a coincidence to assume that France wrote the note here—intending to commit suicide—but was killed before he could do it?”

  “Can’t say. Personally I believe life’s nothing but coincidences all through. What we do know is that his prints were on it… and the blotting paper… both sets blurred.”

  He closed the drawer and stood back. Franklin looked at the bookcase, then at the lounge door. “Damned if I can see two pennorth of daylight! France wrote the note here, if he did write it, and killed himself upstairs, if he did kill himself. And how did Somers get the note? That is, if he did get the note. And why did he kill himself, if he did kill himself? And why did he go to the lounge to do it?”

  “No use being impatient,” was Wharton’s comment. “We haven’t been in the house more than five and twenty minutes and you’re expecting mira
cles. We’ve got to let the sediment settle—and there’s a hell of a lot of it in this house. Isn’t that Usher?”

  In the dining-room the valet was setting out a frugal meal—sandwiches, cake, fruit… and more tea.

  “My God!” said Franklin, watching the General pouring himself out a breakfast cup. “Never saw such a chap as you are. Your innards’ll be awash!”

  Wharton put in half a dozen lumps of sugar. “Never mind my innards! Have a sandwich.”

  Franklin rose hurriedly. “Not for me! I’ll slip off to the flat and have a meal. Be back in about an hour.”

  “No flat for you!” said Wharton bluntly. “We’re only just beginning. I want to hear all about that man you and Usher heard in the house. And I want a meticulously detailed account of what happened the other night—you know, that party you went to with Hayles; the one you were showing off about!”

  Franklin’s glare missed fire as the General leaned across to the plate. Then he made the best of it.

  “Right-ho, then! And pass those damn sandwiches before they’re all gone!”

  CHAPTER IX

  PRIVATE ENTERPRISE

  Franklin woke the following morning with a curious sense of elation. For one thing, Wharton had admitted that he occupied a unique position for prowling round and acquiring information among the inner circle of France’s acquaintances, and although his name was not being mentioned publicly, he was, in a way, retained for special investigatory duties by the Yard—always, of course, in consultation with Wharton himself. And not only that. He saw no reason, for instance, why, if the opportunity arose, he should not do a certain amount of investigating on his own account. If nothing came of it, then nobody need be any the wiser. If anything good turned up, then the Yard could have it. And all that would be bread on the waters. A man to whom the Yard owed something could thereafter make use of their organisation and expert advice—provided of course it wasn’t overdone.

  As far as those extras were concerned, Usher looked like providing a promising start. Somewhere in the bottom of his mind he was positive he’d seen the man before. Then there had been something else unusual—that remark of his about going back to work for the Colonel Welling, for whom he’d worked before. Surely a curious sort of arrangement that—a valet leaving a master for another and then going back when the fit took him!

  First of all came his own work, and at the office a letter from Peter Claire, dated the previous night.

  Dear Franklin,—

  Hayles just rang me up and told me all about that awful business of poor Michael. We are naturally very upset and should be very grateful if you would call round some time to-day and let us have what news there is, other than what might be called official. I am hoping to go round first thing in the morning to see if I can lend a hand. Perhaps I shall see you there.

  Yours sincerely,

  Peter Claire.

  Franklin promptly rang up Wharton and gave him the tip.

  “Thanks very much,” said Wharton. “If he mentions you, I’ll give him the definite impression that you were merely a casual caller and not connected with the inquiry. When are you going to see him?”

  “I’ll ring up and suggest four-thirty—if your conference will be over by then.”

  “Four-thirty’ll do.”

  “And if you don’t mind my suggesting it,” added Franklin, “I wonder if you’d mind judiciously pumping him as to what Hayles’s exact status is. I don’t know if you’ve got a very clear idea, but I certainly haven’t.”

  And so to Usher. Colonel Welling seemed the best line of approach and there Franklin found himself up against a brick wall. No information whatever was available, except the name of his former regiment. The only thing to do, therefore, seemed to be to send along a man to make tactful inquiries at Stanhope Street, and that was not only circuitous but far more difficult than it looked. Then he rang up Ludovic Travers. Did he know anything about a Colonel Welling? Travers didn’t, but he did the next best thing—suggested approaching Sir Francis Weston direct.

  Luckily for Franklin, the man who to all intents and purposes was Durangos Limited, had a very weak spot for the detective bureau—the child of his old age and his legitimate creating. As Franklin was ushered in, he gave him a friendly nod.

  “Morning, Franklin! What’s your trouble?”

  “No trouble, Sir Francis. All I wondered was if you could tell me anything about a Colonel Welling—of Stanhope Street. We don’t seem to have any data.”

  “Colonel Welling? What’s he been up to?”

  Franklin explained at some length. The other seemed interested and even gratified.

  “I do know a Colonel Welling,” he said. “He may be your man and he mayn’t. Claude, I think his name is. You can check that by the directories. Also he’s the man behind Hanson and Maude.”

  Then Franklin saw it, or thought he did, and cursed himself for a double-dyed fool. The case files were hunted through laboriously till on the general news’ page of one of the sensational Sunday papers he found what he wanted—the face of Usher; seen all those months before and registered unconsciously.

  WHAT THE FOOTMAN SAW

  HIGH LIFE BELOW STAIRS

  BUTLER GETS TWO YEARS

  The story itself was one of systematic and highly organised graft; a butler with an itching palm and tradesmen who were not averse from sharing in the distribution; then the aroused suspicions and the footman planted in the hall to find out what was happening. How that latter part had been managed was reasonably obvious. Hanson and Maude, that old-established firm of inquiry agents, had been approached and had supplied Usher for the job. For any such posts where the suspicions of an employer were not to be aroused, Colonel Welling was the cloak, the perpetual employer when necessary, and the convenient supplier of references.

  The thing to do, of course, was to find out by hook or crook if Hanson and Maude had planted Usher at 23, Regent View. If they had, it appeared certain that it had been at France’s request; and if so, he must have had other warnings than those anonymous letters, since Usher had been in the house for a fortnight. Franklin was pleased about that bit of deduction, though just a trifle annoyed that France should have approached him while actually a client of Hanson and Maude, yet even about that there was a certain satisfaction. France must have been dissatisfied with the results that Hanson and Maude were producing or he’d never have changed his firm. However, all that didn’t matter very much. The great thing would be to discover just what Usher knew. His reticences and apparent contradictions would be explained and, what was more, when Wharton knew the truth from Usher, he could then be certain—in cases where Hayles and Usher disagreed—not only of the lies Hayles was telling, but also of their import.

  As for Hanson and Maude, he knew them quite well by repute. Their reputation was that of a conservative firm, dealing with the usual routine work, and responsible in their time for some really good efforts. A certain amount of sartorial modification and a touch or two to his face, and he set off for the Haymarket. In the inquiry room of the modest looking offices, his manner became aggressive and distinctly impatient.

  “Can I see somebody important? One of the directors?”.

  “I’ll see, sir. May I have your card, sir?”

  “Card! Isn’t this supposed to be a confidential firm?”

  “May I have your name then, sir?”

  “Certainly not! Preposterous!”

  The clerk looked at a loss. “If you wait a moment, sir, I’ll see if Mr. Hanson is disengaged.”

  Two minutes later Franklin was shown into an office that breathed secrecy. The deed boxes looked securely locked; the safe was certainly so, and the walls were austerely bare. As for the gentleman who rose at his entry, he looked the grand depository of the world’s secrets.

  “How do you do—er—”

  “Forrest! Major Forrest!”

  “Ah! Glad to see you, major. Take a seat. Any connection of the Dorsetshire Forrests by any chance?”
<
br />   The major thought not, then went straight to the matter in hand. His household was worrying him—biggish sort of place up in Yorkshire, where a large staff had to be kept. All sorts of petty pilfering seemed to be going on and he was sure the housekeeper, cook and butler were in league with the local tradesmen. Could Hanson and Maude tackle the job? Money—in reason—was no object. What the major really objected to was being made a fool of. Could a dummy footman or valet be put in, secrecy being, of course, essential? Valet would perhaps be better as the major’s man was going at the end of the week. The chap’d have to be tactful, and detection proof.

  Hanson looked profound and thought he could satisfy the major on that point. How soon was the man wanted? Oh, yes, of course; at the end of the week to take the place of the man who was going. Hanson’s face lit up.

  “That’s all right, major. We’ve got the very man. He’s definitely free on Saturday, if not before. I doubt if there’s another in London who’s his equal.”

  “Could I see him?”

  “Naturally! We should arrange that.”

  “Then let me see. I’m due at Brighton for a day or two,” here came an arch look which Hanson greeted with a smile that was discretion itself. “Then on Thursday I shall be at the Byronic Hotel. At—er—noon? That suit you—and your man?”

  “Suit us very well, sir, but I’ll ring you up first thing on Thursday.”

  The major rose, then sat down again. “Er—about this man. You got a photo or anything handy? I’m most particular. And it seems rather a pity to bring him round and all that, if he’s not likely to suit.”

  Hanson went over to the filing cabinets. “We have a photo, sir, but not as he really is. We never let our men be seen as they are. This is the man, sir. He’s handled two of our recent cases with extraordinary tact… details of course I mustn’t give you.”

  The major adjusted his pince-nez. “Hm! Looks a capable sort of chap!… And this is a sort of disguise!”

  “That’s right, major. That’s how he’ll probably come to you.”