Dead Man Twice

by Christopher Bush

  “Risk it! If I were Wharton, I should think you a most intelligent chap.” He leaned forward with his elbows on the table and fumbled with his glasses. “Doesn’t it strike you that Hayles is in a devilish awkward position and that this—er—breakdown has been rather in the nature of a godsend?”

  “Rubbish!” said Franklin curtly. “He didn’t make himself ill. You can’t do a thing like that… at least, not without doping.”

  “I don’t know. If you’re ill to start with, you can let yourself go and make things much worse. But you haven’t tackled the major proposition. He is in an awkward position. He’s apparently the only one who knew all the circumstances and might have been in the house at the time you heard him. I should say that as soon as he heard you ask the housekeeper that question about when he came in on the Sunday, he shot out of that bed like a stoat.”

  “You’re probably right there.”

  “I’d like to put something up to you.” This very apologetically. “You and I were mentioning last night, the subject of psychology—the value of impressions or summing people up as we say. Let’s have a look at something that might come under that heading—but which is a permanent and not a cursory impression, if there can be such a thing.… You’ve read that book —Two Years in the Ring?”

  “Cover to cover.”

  “Then you know it’s good—very good. Take some parts that are not directly connected with boxing—France’s boyhood, for instance, his uncle, his mother and his holiday in Russia; all as interesting as a first-class thriller. Then the boxing chapters; really great as you’ll agree. The way it gradually brings out his rise to recognition, his unorthodoxy in training, his dispensing with a manager and so on; all making for sympathy as it were. Then the fights; the sense of touch in the creation of atmosphere and suspense.… Still, there we are. I’ve praised it very lamely, but it’s amazingly good. Don’t you agree?”

  “I do. It’s absolutely great!”

  Travers took off his glasses. “That’s the very point. It is a fine book—and well written. Now who was responsible for all that? If two men ride on a horse, one has to go behind. You’d say, as I did, that France employed Hayles as his ghost; that France burbled and babbled while Hayles licked everything into shape… sort of gave it the local habitation and a name. As I said, that’s what I took for granted—and that’s the kind of obvious impression that might be loosely called psychology. Last night, all that occurred to me, and after you’d gone I made up my mind I’d have a look at those two novels Hayles had written, as I’d told Palmer to get ’em for me. And I had a go at ’em both. The idea was to see precisely how Hayles wrote by himself—to get his single value, as it were. We already have the double value in the partnership book Two Years in the Ring, and therefore if you subtract Hayles’s single value from the double value, it must give you the single value of France. What happened? Well, there I have to go carefully, in case you should think me superior; however, there was something that rose up and smote me clean in the eye—as it will you, when you try it out.”

  Franklin smiled. “I rather gather that you didn’t think a lot of ’em!”

  “My dear fellow, they’re the cheapest, crudest sensationalism I’ve ever been let in for—and I’ve had some bad luck in the old days on railway journeys. And there’s something else that’s intriguing—perhaps you’ll pick it up as we go along. The first one is The Madison Gardens Mystery. Notice the name for a start. The title is a flimsy disguise for the famous boxing arena, and should have been The Madison-Square Garden Mystery. That’s a clue to begin with. The book is naturally all about boxing. It’s ill-written and obvious and it gave me the impression of clinging to France’s skirts. It was written immediately after the partnership book, on the same subject, so as to catch the reflected glory, only—everything that’s taken from Two Years in the Ring is not nearly so good, and what’s new isn’t worth tuppence. I happen to know it sold quite reasonably—and, as I said, owing to the circumstances and the title.

  “But there’s a more interesting proof. If the theory’s right, then the further Hayles got from France, the worse efforts he produced. The second book —The Fighting Chance—has a misleading title, a catch-penny title if you like. It isn’t about boxing. It’s pure Hayles—and it’s terrible stuff. It was badly reviewed and it sold as well as it deserved. In other words we’ve arrived at the value of France in the literary partnership.” Franklin made a wry face. “You’re trying to work out a jealousy motive for the killing of France? If so, remember that Hayles didn’t kill him!”

  “It’s a good motive. And if he didn’t kill him, at any rate you’ll admit that somebody who might have been Hayles, tried to poison him… and got the wrong man!”

  Franklin grunted. “Hm! And what about regarding France as a regular, up-to-date Admiral Crichton! Literary graces and all the tricks of the trade!”

  Travers accepted the ironic challenge. “Why not? He did what he did because he hadn’t any tricks. All he had was the knack of doing what all the big ones have—putting down simply and vividly what he felt. In any case, why regard the unusual as incomprehensible?”

  Franklin said nothing.

  “I hope it hasn’t bored you too much,” went on Travers, with no idea of irony. “It just happened to occur to me… that’s all.”

  “It’s sound enough reasoning,” admitted Franklin. “The thing is, does it get us any farther?”

  Travers smiled. “Why force me to platitudes? ‘Every little helps,’ and so on. But why not send your man down? Send Potter. He’s a shrewd and tactful person.”

  “Doesn’t seem reason enough for butting in,” said Franklin. “Now if he could find out something about that poison which Wharton’s keeping very quiet about, we’d be getting along. I don’t think it was bought over the counter. No man’d be such a fool as to sign his name to that.”

  “There is a long shot Potter might try,” said Travers. “What about the habits of the common wasp?”

  “The common wasp! What the devil’s that got to do with it?”

  Travers told him.

  CHAPTER XVI

  MRS. CLAIRE TALKS

  When Franklin got round to Regent View, he found Norris there.

  “The General was worrying about you,” he said. “He tried to get hold of you, but you’d started away. He’s been suddenly called back to the Yard.”

  Franklin went over to the fire and warmed his hands. “How did he get on to-day?”

  “Don’t know a word,” said Norris. “He hadn’t been here a couple of ticks when he was rung up. How have you been doing? Hayles still alive?”

  “That’s more than I know,” said Franklin, and told him what he knew. Norris looked alarmed till he heard that Potter was probably at Ripley Norton by that time.

  “Tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “I’ll speak to the General as soon as he gets in and ask him to ring you up. He’s bound to be back soon. You’ve certainly done everything you possibly could.”

  “Right-ho!” said Franklin. “Then I’ll be pushing off. How’d you get on yourself—at Royston?”

  Norris tugged at his moustache. “Depends on how you look at it. From our point of view—not so well; from Claire’s—very well indeed.”

  “His alibi was all right?”

  “Beautiful. Leather bound and gilt edges. I saw that chap Utley; very nice fellow indeed—and keeps some damn good beer. I made out we had an idea that Somers had communicated with Claire—had to pitch him some yarn or other and we didn’t want him communicating with Claire. However, he swallowed it all right. He said he had Claire under his eye from the time they left the club—and that’d be about seven-fifteen—till the time he went to bed, and that was well after midnight.” He thought of something. “No, that’s not quite right. He missed him for about five minutes, just before the train started at Liverpool Street. He rather thought he’d gone to telephone—and he thought he saw him coming out of one of those boxes. However, next morning they c
oncluded the deal and as Claire said he wanted to get back to town, Utley said he’d drive him. It’s only about an hour in the car and they thought it’d be as clear in town as it was down there. It wasn’t so bad as it was later, but they had to crawl the last bit and finally Utley dropped him at Euston. He thought the time was about half-past twelve.”

  “Just what I was going to ask you,” said Franklin. “Not that it makes any difference, provided he was in town during the afternoon.” He looked rather questioningly at the other. “Do you know I’ve been wondering if we haven’t made a mistake after all. Why shouldn’t it have been Claire we heard in the house and not Hayles!”

  “I don’t mind telling you,” confided Norris, “that I’ve been thinking the same thing myself. I’ll tell you why. You see, my idea was this. As soon as Claire got out of that car, if he’d been mixed up with anything he’d want to see a paper to find out if anything had been discovered. Now the exact place Utley had dropped him was at the junction of the Euston and Tottenham Court Roads; so I asked the bloke who sells papers there, if he could tell me where to find the chap who had the Sunday pitch and he put me on to him on a day pitch at the corner of Gower Street. So I went along to see this chap and described Claire to him and, do you know, he recognised him like a shot!”

  “Did he, by jove!”

  “He thought the time was nearly one. And the first thing Claire said to him—that’s what made this chap remember him was, ‘Are these the ordinary Sunday papers? Got anything later?’ or words to that effect. What d’you make of that!”

  “Looks as if he was mighty anxious to know something! How many’d he buy?”

  “A couple—low-brow ones. Reckon he had the rest at home.”

  Franklin grunted, then, “Let me see. Wasn’t there something about France receiving a telephone message at about eight on the Saturday night? Any connection, do you think?”

  “I was wondering about that myself,” said Norris. Then he shook his head. “We’d never trace a call like that! You know what a place like the Paliceum’s like on a Saturday night; telephone bells going all the time. For all we know, there might have been more than one from Liverpool Street. And they wouldn’t know the words.”

  “Exactly! And you’d have only Claire’s word for what was said. Not that that matters much—he couldn’t have done anything. France was alive long after that call.”

  He moved off towards the door. “Then you’ll tell the General as soon as he gets back.”

  “That’s right. You get along home and have a meal in peace—and no tea with it!”

  Franklin chuckled; then stopped suddenly. “By the way, I suppose you didn’t make any inquiries at that Air Force Camp while you were down there?”

  Norris shook his head. “Damn sight too difficult! Also, what was the use? Midnight’s a good alibi… and you can add an hour to get to town.”

  * * * * *

  What had happened to Wharton was that his hunch had come off. That sudden recall to the Yard announced that a lady wanted to see him and that she wouldn’t come to Regent View but would wait for him there. A word to Norris and he was off. A minute or two at the Yard to see the room was suitably staged and the stenographer ready, and he pushed the bell.

  There wasn’t very much to be seen of Dorothy Claire’s face as she entered the room. The toque hat was well over the ears, and the collar of the superb fur coat left the merest oval of nose and mouth. But the mouth wasn’t smiling—and it wasn’t petulant.

  “Come along and sit down, Mrs. Claire,” began Wharton briskly, and almost pushing her into the easy chair. Then he stoked up the moribund fire and, as he did so, noticed her eyes turned to the far corner.

  “You mustn’t mind that officer there. He’s got a job to do… and he won’t pay any attention to us. Won’t you loosen your coat? You won’t feel the benefit of it when you get outside.” No sign of conversation forthcoming, he bustled back to his own chair—and waited.

  As she loosened the collar of her coat he caught the faint smell of some subtle and attractive scent. And he noticed the heaviness of her eyes. There had certainly been more tears and no little amount of worry since he saw them last. Still, there was no emotion audible in the voice; merely perhaps a delicate suggestion of the pathetic—or was it regret?

  “I’ve come to see you, Mr. Wharton, because… because I felt I was wrong this morning. I… ought to have told you the truth.”

  “It’s the shortest way in the long run,” said Wharton quietly. “I’m an old man, Mrs. Claire, but experience has taught me that you can’t go very far wrong while you tell the truth—and the whole truth.”

  “You won’t be angry about… what happened this morning?”

  He waved his hand with a gesture of magnificent dismissal. “That’s all over and done with. You found the truth a hard thing to face, so you…”

  She gave a little smile at that, then bit her lip. “You’ll believe what I tell you—now?”

  Another magnificent gesture. “Provided you give me your word that it’s the truth—and the whole truth—I’ll most certainly believe you!”

  She settled into her chair and let her hands fall to her lap. “What annoyed me this morning was that you were all wrong—”

  “One moment!” smiled Wharton. “Don’t let’s hear about me. I am always wrong—where ladies are concerned. I admit that right away. Now will you start at the beginning and tell me everything that led up to last Friday night. Take your time and tell it in your own way.”

  “Well, it started over a night club where the police made a raid and Mrs. Carruthers, whom we know awfully well, was caught and her name was in the—er—papers, and I said—we were having dinner at the time”—she hesitated the least bit—“and Michael Franee was there, and my husband said how disgraceful it was and all that and—er—he got very annoyed!”

  “And you disagreed!”

  There was a flash of the old spirit. “Yes, I did. We both did. I said it was ridiculous and if I wanted to go to a night club, then I should. And then my husband said I was quite wrong about that and he was perfectly beastly over it! He said he insisted I shouldn’t go to a place like that… and then Michael chipped in and said there were night clubs and night clubs and Peter—my husband—said he’d be the one to decide that, and then Mid—Michael said he was talking a lot of rot, and then… well, everybody started being very horrid.”

  “Exactly how horrid?”

  “I… don’t know. I got up and left the table. They were saying most unpleasant things to each other, and we—I mean Mr. Claire and I, haven’t really spoken since… except when people were there and we had to.”

  “And that was how long ago?”

  “Nearly a month.”

  Wharton smiled. “And everything’s settled now? You’re good friends again?”

  She fumbled with her handkerchief and lowered her eyes. “No… not really.”

  Wharton heaved a sigh. “And then what happened?”

  “Michael—Mr. France—told me there was a special show on at a night club—the Dame Heureuse—and he asked me if I’d like to go. He was very persuasive and I was… well, all furious with my husband, and I said I’d go like a shot… and then I wished I hadn’t. You see… Michael did keep on about it and I was an awful coward and I wouldn’t go back on what I’d said, and… and that’s all that happened!”

  Wharton left the desk and took a seat opposite her at the fire.

  “All those preparations… that elaborate planning—were just to go to a night club!”

  She looked at him for a moment, then her cheek flushed. “You mean… you still think—there was something else?”

  Wharton’s eyes caught hers—and held them.

  “And was there… Mrs. Claire?”

  She moistened her lips and he saw the warning signs in time to make a gesture of acceptance. “You tell me about it… in your own way.”

  She nodded angrily. “I have told you!” The outburst of temper went as
quickly as it came. “Don’t you see I’m telling you the truth? We knew Peter was going away for the week-end and I… I wanted to see my nurse. I do see her every year, so I was to pretend on the Saturday that I didn’t know if I were going or not, and then I was to make up my mind, only instead of going, I was to… to go to the night club with Michael… from his house. I was to put on the frock I had in my bag—you know I couldn’t have left my house with that on—and then we were going to the Dame Heureuse… and Michael said that afterwards we could go to a really nice place he knew where we could play roulette—for quite small stakes—and then we were coming back, frightfully late of course, and then Michael was to take me straight to Maidenhead in his car. You see, I told Mary all about it… in a letter!”

  “And you did go round to his house?”

  She bit her lip. The tears seemed very near. “Y-yes. I did go… but not… as you thought. You see, Michael did ring me up at my house earlier in the evening and he said I wasn’t to go straight back there. I was to go to town and then cut back to Camden Town Station and he’d be there waiting for me and we could walk back… He said he didn’t like me going about alone… in that fog.”

  Wharton believed it. Paradoxically, the very untruths he had heard the same morning, made him believe it. She was so utterly transparent. Each little inflection of the voice, each faint hesitation, each small insistence stood out like a direction post. Foolish perhaps, and obstinate, but just what that nurse of hers had said—straight in the big things and impulsive in the little. As for France’s game, it was obvious; the return in the small hours, the excitement of the evening, the cups of tea… and the car that had gone astray in the fog!

  “I see. Well, Mrs. Claire, I oughtn’t to tell you so, but I believe you. But I’ve got to convince other people as well as myself. Is there, for instance, any other information you can give me—say about that night club?”

  “I can’t… Michael did everything. I left it all to him.”