Dead Man Twice

by Christopher Bush

  Wharton shook his head dubiously. “Ingenious! Very ingenious! Still, it’s a suggestion, and that’s more than I’ve had. However, we all agree that Hayles tried to poison France and got Somers instead, and that he was the man you and Usher heard in the house. Is that so?”

  “I’m agreed,” said Norris.

  “And I,” said Franklin; “at least as a working hypothesis.”

  “Right! That eliminates the Somers murder, and Hayles. It becomes a separate and clean cut affair of its own. Now to the murder of France, and before we go on to that, we’ve got to go back to those specimens of writing and the anonymous threats. Why did France suspect the three people in his house?”

  Franklin smiled. “Suspect! What of? A genuine desire to murder—or a practical joke?”

  “Not a joke,” said Norris. “He wouldn’t have consulted you if he’d thought that.”

  “We’re wandering from the point,” said Wharton. “Why should he suspect them at all? My own idea is that this was a single occurrence out of many. He may have suspected Usher, and he may have had his ideas about Hayles—”

  “Just a minute!” broke in Franklin, and related the affair of the man in the taxi—the man whom Travers suspected of being Hayles.

  “The very thing!” said Wharton. “France suspected espionage and that scared him. He thought, when he saw the word ‘Lucy,’ that somebody knew about that establishment at Harrow and would split to Mrs. Claire, and so spoil what looked like a promising intrigue. He decided not to risk anything. Somebody was trying to frighten him away from London over the week-end, when he’d planned to consummate that delightful affair; therefore he decided not to take any chances. While he was sending specimens of writing of the two men he most suspected, he threw in a specimen of Somers’s writing for luck. And he made sure by sending the whole three of those people away for the week-end.”

  “That sounds logic,” said Franklin. “By the way, has Dyerson any ideas?”

  Wharton grunted. “He’s got ideas—but nothing much else… at present. He says the threats were written in two processes; first crudely with the left hand, then the paper was turned upside down and a copy made, still with the left hand. That’s what France got.… And he’s inclined to Hayles; inclined, mind you.”

  “Hm!… And was Hayles the only one who knew about that Cambridge affair with Lucy?”

  “Somers probably knew—who else we don’t know I think Hayles might have written them. Claire couldn’t. He didn’t know anything about the week-end till Usher ’phoned him on the Friday, whereas the first anonymous threat arrived early in the week.” He reached over to the pistol, balanced it in his hand, then passed it over to Franklin.

  “Perfectly ridiculous—and a tragedy! A toy like that… to kill a man like him!”

  That was the first time Franklin had really seen that pistol. It looked of the size to be carried unobtrusively in a lady’s handbag, and there was something effeminate in the apricot-coloured enamelling of the stock.

  “Looks foreign!”

  “Yes, it’s French. Garnier-Lafitte’s the make. We think it’s a war souvenir. And it’s the one that killed him all right. Here’s the diagram of the path of the bullet; report in medical language underneath.”

  He passed the diagram over. “Notice anything peculiar about that pistol?”

  Franklin tried its weight, then the pull of the trigger. “Good God! It goes off at a touch! It’s been tampered with.”

  “That’s right. A woman, for instance, could fire it as easily as dab her nose.”

  Franklin looked at him, then back at the pistol.

  “Take those hairs,” went on Wharton. “A woman, alone or with a confederate, enters by the lounge window. She goes over the house and enters the bedroom, which she may have known from experience, and sees the roses and other preparations, which give her information or inflame her jealousy, or both. She sits on the settee and waits for France, then decides to give him a surprise. She waits in the cloakroom, sees the entry with another woman, and that decides her. When the time comes, she shoots!”

  Franklin nodded. “Then according to this diagram of the path of the bullet, she must have been a tall woman—or have stood on something, and I’m damned if I see why she should have done that.”

  “There are a couple of hassocks in the cloakroom she might have stood on.… But that maid of Mrs. Claire’s is a tallish woman—best part of five foot nine!”

  “And what about the hairs?”

  “All I can say at the moment is that apparently—almost certainly—those hairs found on the settee were hers!”

  Franklin gave a whistle. “Interviewed her yet?”

  Wharton shook his head. “I only got the news this morning. Also, between ourselves, I can’t credit it. She isn’t the type; I don’t mean the sex appeal business, I mean for the shooting and so on. That woman’s not an actress; she’s immature—no, that’s not the word; she’s transparent, unsophisticated; that’s it; pretty face and empty head—except at her work probably.”

  “Well, you know best,” said Franklin. “It’s a pity, that’s all.”

  “You’re right there!” added Norris. “That woman’d fit like a glove. She knew all Mrs. Claire’s movements; she knew Mrs. Claire daren’t say a word about having been in the house, and she could have slipped back at any time to have shifted the body.”

  Wharton waited with exaggerated patience till they’d finished. “I know all that—but there’s a snag you haven’t seen. At the present moment I don’t want to worry Mrs. Claire again, and I don’t want to set Claire thinking too much—as I should do if that maid were questioned. I may say, however, that a little diplomatic work is being done. Now where are we?”

  “We’ve got France killed.”

  “That’s it. The rest I told you down at Marfleet and you agreed with how Norris and I worked it out. Two different entries, you remember, at two different times by two different people—the first probably Claire and the second Hayles. The Claire one now suggests that he and the maid were in collusion and that’d be a satisfactory solution. It seems to me, therefore, the best thing we can do is to leave that till we’ve got her alibi.”

  In spite of that they spent a good half hour re-traversing the ground; going into minor details and shying down the coconut theories that kept popping up. As for the immediate points of concentration decided on—other than the maid’s alibi—they were the possibility of an intrigue between her and France, the tracing of the ownership of the pistol, and the finding of Hayles. With regard to that last, however, Wharton produced a bombshell.

  “There’s something unusual I’d like to ask you and Norris to do. Imagine I’m Hayles. I’ve just been found by you two and I know as much as you. You ask me if I’d care to make a statement or answer any questions. Got that? Right! Now you two fire away with everything you want to ask!” and he leaned back in the chair with a look of pleasant anticipation.

  Franklin. “Why did you ask Young for poison to kill a cat which wasn’t dangerous?”

  Wharton. “In my opinion it was—and cats are unhealthy things in a house. I didn’t want to hurt my mother’s feelings, so I naturally mentioned it to nobody but Young.”

  Norris. “Doesn’t it strike you as peculiar that you and Usher were the only ones who could have doped that whisky, and you should have been in possession of the very poison that was used?”

  Wharton. “Not in the least! The person you say broke into the house, he’s the one who doped the whisky. As for it being in my possession, that’s nonsense. It’s used all over the country for destroying wasps’ nests.”

  Franklin. “Why were you listening in on Friday?”

  Wharton. “I wasn’t! Everybody thought I was out, but I happened to be working upstairs and heard voices.”

  Franklin. “In your note to Mrs. Claire you say you did something as a result of that listening in. What was it you did, exactly?”

  Wharton. “I had a confidential word with Fra
nce the following morning and he threatened to abandon the attempt on Mrs. Claire. I threatened, if he didn’t, to go straight to Claire. Only when he’d promised did I consent to go to Martlesham. I thought afterwards that France had been so upset about this, that he’d committed suicide.”

  Norris. “In your note to Mrs. Claire—”

  “You can hold on there!” said Wharton. “Whatever you ask me about that note I shall deny—or accept—as it happens to suit me. Remember, the doctor will be prepared to swear I was suffering from loss of memory, and the doctor’d have the whole of the Medical Association behind him. I can get that memory back just when it suits me—and vice versa.”

  That was enough for Franklin. “I see your point. If Hayles has his case all ready, we’ve a very flimsy, circumstantial case against him; not enough to proceed with, shall we say.”

  “That’s just it. He may even decline to make a statement at all, then we’d be still more in the dark. Now if he’d forged that confession—which he didn’t—he’d be a goner! That’s why I’d like you and Norris to make a special attack on Hayles’s position from the point of view we were just rehearsing.”

  Franklin glanced at Norris. “We’ll have a shot. By the way, what about France’s will? Any motives disclosed by legacies?”

  “None at all. Mrs. Claire and Somers were down for souvenir legacies, and Hayles for the sole rights of the partnership book. Lucy gets the house at Harrow and a sum of money which doesn’t exist. There’s nothing to incite murder in any of that. I ought to say, however, that in view of the big fight where he’d have made an enormous sum—win or lose—he’d expressed to his solicitors the desire to make a fresh will at once.”

  That was the virtual end of the conference, except that as the three of them were on the point of leaving the lounge, Franklin suddenly thought of something.

  “Would you mind if I had a look round that cloakroom by daylight. One or two things I don’t understand.”

  “Come along!” said Wharton, and led the way through the lounge door. “Here are two lavatories. That, as you see, is the twin wash-basin with towel rack,” and so on from the tiled floor with its rugs, to the stands for sticks and umbrellas, and the row of pegs for hats and coats.

  “And this is where the shot was fired from!” said Franklin, opening the door and looking out to the drawing-room. He seemed to imagine himself as firing the shot, for he closed the door gently and drew back quickly to one side. As he did so he caught his head a nasty jab against a coat-hook set in the upright of the panelling.

  “Blast the hook!” He started to rub his ear. “Why the devil did they want to plaster that door with pegs? The room’s full of ’em already!”

  He looked round. “By the way, wasn’t this Usher’s headquarters for spying? The two doors are nice and handy. Wonder if France ever caught him here—you know, that question we were discussing of France being suspicious.”

  “He’s in the kitchen. Bring him here, Norris, will you?”

  Usher’s contribution to the part played by the cloak-room, proved to be unexpected. As Franklin had said, it had been his headquarters for espionage. On occasions when he’d been on hand at the entry of Mrs. Claire, he’d retired to the kitchen and so into the cloak-room by the lounge window—his entry being screened by the tall out-houses. Once France had almost caught him and he had to make a quick pretence of wiping the wash-basin.

  He had been rather annoyed, with a “What the devil are you doing here?” whereupon Usher had explained and withdrawn.

  As for the other special advantages of the room, as Usher pointed out, with the door slightly ajar a conversation could be heard in either of the main rooms. Moreover, an eye could be kept on the end of the screen and even the staircase, and surprise be guarded against.

  “Then I discovered this knot-hole, sir,” said Usher, in the manner of one who approaches his chef d’œuvre. He indicated what would certainly have passed unnoticed—a knot-hole clean up against the side of that coat hook which was nearer the lock.

  “How it happened, sir, was that one day the door slammed and I found a knot on the floor and wondered what it was; then I found the hole and put the knot back, and it stuck all right. Then I saw it might be useful, sir, and as there were plenty of coat-hooks about I put these two up here on the door munting, sir—”

  “Door what!”

  “This upright, sir; muntings they call ’em. Well, sir, as I was saying, I put up the two hooks. I knew they’d never be noticed; also I kept a coat hanging on this particular hook so that the knot shouldn’t be seen. Also I dabbed the hole and the knot with black enamel. After that, sir, I could prise out the knot with a pin and keep an eye on the end of the screen without having the door open. Also the coat being there kept the knot from falling out.”

  “Let me have a look,” said Wharton. Usher felt for a pin. Franklin anticipated him with the blade of his knife but found the knot difficult. Finally it levered out.

  “The resin must have exuded,” said Franklin, making a face and wiping his fingers.

  “I’m sorry, sir! I ought to have remembered,” said Usher hurriedly. “I put a dab of seccotine on it.”

  “Why?”

  “Mr. Claire told me to, over the ’phone that Friday evening, sir. He said the whole thing was a wash-out, and I was to close up this hole as he didn’t want anything suspicious left about; especially if I could induce Mr. France to give me the sack straight away.”

  “I see.” Wharton, shorter than Usher and Franklin by two inches, tiptoed and peeped through. Franklin and Norris had a look. Through the hole, thanks to the angle at which it was set, was a good view of the approaches to the door itself.

  Wharton stood back and surveyed it, then turned to Usher.

  “You had a pretty low-down game to play but you certainly kept an eye on the main chance. Still, that was not your fault.” He frowned. “Suppose he couldn’t have been shot through that hole?” He approached it again and squinted through. “Of course he couldn’t!” He turned round to the others and made a gesture of explanation. “You can only shoot what you can see, and this hole was barely big enough for a pistol, let alone a look through at the same time. Also it’d have been burnt round the edges.”

  “That’s right enough,” said Franklin. Norris had another look, then agreed. Wharton replaced the knot, then turned to Usher.

  “Inspector Norris will be here till tea time, Usher, and I shall be in later. You can take the afternoon off if you care to.”

  Wharton and Franklin parted company at St. John’s Wood Station, the latter going back to town and the other to Harrow—at least, that’s what he said. But under cover of his train that came in first, Wharton made his way up again to the street. Five minutes later he was back again in the cloak-room of Number 23.

  CHAPTER XXI

  TRAVERS MAKES A SUGGESTION

  When Ludovic Travers was excited, there was usually nothing in his face to show it. If anything, his manner on such occasions was slightly more diffident; a hesitancy to admit—not that he was excited, but that what he was anxious about should really be of the importance he imagined it. True, there was that trick of polishing his glasses, but that was rather an inherent, general nervousness which might mean anything.

  Still, all the signs were there when he came, extremely apologetically, into Franklin’s office just after an early lunch. His “Busy?” for example, was for him very off-handed, and his acceptance of the answer before it came, more casual still. Franklin watched him amusedly as he took a seat and removed his horn-rims.

  Franklin finished what he was doing, pushed the papers aside, found his pipe, then drew up the other chair.

  “You want the full report of the France-Somers Case, up to date!”—and regarded him ironically.

  “That’s very good of you,” said Travers mildly.

  “Moreover, you’ve got an idea!”

  Travers blinked up at him. “No, honestly! I mean it isn’t an idea. It depends exactl
y on what’s been happening.”

  Franklin couldn’t keep back a blast on the trumpet. “Ludo, I can read you like a penny tract!” He took the seat. “However, I’ll tell you what happened at the conference and that’ll sum it up.”

  It didn’t quite do that. There was so much that Travers didn’t know that the recital was constantly switching off into details and byways; as Travers remarked, it was like one of those exasperating, eighteenth-century novels, and yet the whole thing could be summed up in a paragraph.

  “If I take it right,” he said, “the case against Hayles having murdered Somers, lies in the establishing of more evidence, while the affair of France is all in the air except that Mrs. Claire’s maid would be a pretty solution.”

  “That’s it. If you like, you can call it—confession, pistol and hairs.”

  “Quite!” Then off came the glasses. “I do happen to be working up an idea, but it’s very nebulous at the moment. I’d better own up to that much in case you claim any further psychomantic powers. Now—er—have you read those two novels yet?”

  “Damn it! I haven’t had five good minutes to myself!” remonstrated Franklin.

  “I rather guessed that,” went on Travers, exceedingly placatingly. “I know you’ve been frightfully busy. Still, you remember what we were discussing in the matter of those two books of Hayles. Now don’t misunderstand me. I know that what I’m going to say will carry very little weight with Wharton; it wouldn’t convince a jury, as he’d put it. But you’re different.”

  “Thanks very much!”

  Travers ignored that. “We proved, I think, that France was responsible for the really excellent work in Two Years in the Ring, He had the art of writing naturally, of seeing where his colleague was writing unnaturally, and he had sufficient control over the partnership to take final charge. Let me add that no other partnership book has been begun; that’s so, isn’t it?”