Checkmate to Murder: A Second World War Mystery

by E. C. R. Lorac

  Macdonald chuckled. “Yes. I follow you—and you never got your supper after all. It was unfortunate.”

  “Oh, that was immaterial. Things happened and I became interested. There was movement, action, drama. Besides—while you talked to Bruce and the others, I ate my supper in the kitchen. A pity to waste the good stew. Listen to me, Chief Inspector,” and Delaunier bent forward, waving an admonitory finger. “To ask us what we do, here, in this studio, a necessary preliminary, perhaps, but a waste of time. The man you have to watch is that Special Constable, that pompous, unpleasant, frightened Special Constable.”

  “Frightened?”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector, frightened. I tell you that I, as an actor, have studied psychology. I have studied reactions to emotion—hate, joy, sorrow, fear. That man was frightened. The young soldier, he was afraid, too, but in a different way. He was not afraid to show that he was afraid. The Special now, he covered up his fear. He blustered. He bullied—but he was afraid. His hands were shaking, his eyes bulging. Yes. I tell you he was afraid.”

  “He’d had rather a dramatic evening, you must remember,” said Macdonald. “It isn’t the lot of most Special Constables to discover a crime of violence, and to follow that discovery by breaking into a studio party very far removed from the usual contacts of a successful business man. It is probable that his overbearing manner, to which you all took such strong exception, was a defence mechanism to conceal the fact that he felt completely flummoxed. Think that over, Mr. Delaunier, and see if it fits in with your reading of psychology. Meantime, many thanks for your assistance in the matter of evidence. I hope you have not got far to go on this foggy evening.”

  Delaunier smiled. “My congé, so to speak? It is time for me to go? Frankly, I regret it. I should have been interested to stay, to assist you in your investigation, perhaps. Come, Chief Inspector—I have suffered all the inconveniences of this evening of crime. Let me have a make-weight. I should like to study the actions and character of a famous detective. It would be valuable experience for me. In my opinion, the stage detective is always over-acted.”

  Macdonald laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but our regulations do not allow Watsons. As a matter of fact, the routine work of detection is no more dramatic to watch than the routine work of an auditor at his books.”

  Delaunier sighed. “You disappoint me,” he said. “I hate to be left out when there is anything of interest afoot. However—you ask me to go, and I go with a good grace. Good-evening, Chief Inspector.” He got up, strode down from the platform, and turned back to look at Macdonald before he reached the door, striking a pose as an actor taking a curtain.

  “Remember what I told you,” he admonished. “There was a frightened man in this studio this evening—a man who was afraid of showing his fear.”

  As the scarlet-clad figure made its impressive exit, Macdonald felt that his own “Good-evening” had been an anti-climax, if not an impertinence.

  Chapter Four

  I

  In contrast with Delaunier’s dramatic speech, Rosanne Manaton’s terse narrative seemed almost bleak. She wasted no words, and it was evident enough that she was tired of the evening’s proceedings. Macdonald found as a general rule that most people enjoyed making a statement, very much in the way that bombed-out people enjoy recounting the horrific experiences through which they have passed. Rosanne’s evident intention was to say what she had to say as briefly as possible. She stated curtly that Delaunier had come at six o’clock that evening, Mackellon and Cavenish at 7.30.

  “I left them in the studio and got on with my cooking,” she continued. “At half-past eight Mrs. Tubbs came in to bring me some herrings she had bought for me. She is a charwoman who works for Mr. Folliner. She stayed chatting for five minutes. A little while after she left I went outside to see if the studio black-out was all right. Then I came in again and dished up the dinner. I noticed that Mrs. Tubbs had left a latch-key on the kitchen table—it is still there.”

  Her curt voice ceased, and there was silence for a few seconds. Macdonald studied her, quite deliberately. Somehow Rosanne interested him: he judged that she had more character than any of the other occupants of the studio that evening.

  Rosanne had refused the chair which Macdonald had drawn forward for her: she stood with her back to the stove, a slim taut figure, her hands thrust into the pockets of her ski-ing trousers, her eyes fixed on the chessmen. She stood very still and her face was expressionless, as unmoved as the voice which spoke so clearly and curtly—it was a beautiful voice, Macdonald noted, singularly clear and deliberate in enunciation, and very quiet.

  “Your evidence holds much more of interest from a detective’s point of view than does that of your brother and his friends, Miss Manaton,” said Macdonald, but she replied brusquely, as though deliberately ignoring the conversational gambit.

  “There is nothing of interest in it, either to you or to me, Chief Inspector. True, I went outside and walked round the studio, but I saw nothing at all, not even a chink in our own shoddy black-out. It was foggy and cold—that was all. If you are hoping for startling revelations from Mrs. Tubbs you will be disappointed. She is a kind-hearted, generous little soul, who works hard because she can’t imagine any scheme of life which isn’t hard work. She left Mr. Folliner’s latch-key on my kitchen table: she has done it before, because she knows it is quite safe there. None of those facts which I have related have any bearing on what happened in that house.”

  “Perhaps not—though there are some interesting possibilities,” replied Macdonald. “Can you tell me how long you were outside when you went to look at the black-out? You went out by the kitchen door, I take it?”

  “Yes. I walked up the path to the further end of the studio—the window which gives so much trouble is at the end nearest the house. I turned the corner of the studio and glanced up at the top light. The black-out was adequate: good enough to save us from being fined, at any rate. That was all I wanted to know. I came back to the kitchen and got on with my work.”

  “You heard nothing while you were outside?”

  Rosanne shrugged her shoulders wearily.

  “I heard the usual sounds which I should expect to hear; the rumble of a train, the shriek of its whistle, a faint sound of music—so-called—from somebody’s wireless.”

  “You were back in the kitchen by nine o’clock?”

  “I expect so. I didn’t actually look at the clock.”

  “Did you hear a pistol shot, or any similar report or bang?”

  “I can’t tell you. I was busy with pots and pans, and I only noticed what I was doing myself.”

  Again there was a silence, and then Macdonald went on: “When Mrs. Tubbs was talking to you, did she mention Mr. Folliner?”

  “Yes. She said that the reason she went on looking after him was not for what he paid her, but because she couldn’t bear to think of him all by himself, with no one going in to see if he were alive or dead.”

  Rosanne broke off, and then added abruptly in that clear terse voice: “To know a woman like Mrs. Tubbs is to know what real charity means, Chief Inspector. It’s not a quality you find among the intellectuals of this world. Mrs. Tubbs looked after old Folliner because she was sorry for him—because he was an old horror, as she put it. She’ll be sorry he’s dead, just because she was kind to him.”

  “Yes. I know the quality you mean, Miss Manaton. I respect it as much as you do. Charity seeketh not her own, and never faileth. Did you know—‘the old horror’?”

  Rosanne turned at that and met his eyes, and her own sombre regard lightened to something like a smile in return to his.

  “No, not really. I went in to see him once with Bruce when we were taking this studio. I have more common sense over agreements than he has, and I hoped to prevent him signing anything stupid. Old Folliner was a miser, I thought, intent on nothing but screwing the last possible
penny out of other people’s necessities. He would have let this place for any purpose—as a brothel or a coiner’s den—if he could have got an extra penny out of it. I managed to delete the more outrageous clauses from the agreement he wanted Bruce to sign. I have never seen Mr. Folliner since—and I hope never to smell anything like his room again.”

  The trenchant voice ceased, and Rosanne added: “I can’t tell you anything relevant, and I’m tired. If there is nothing more you want to ask, I shall be glad to get on with my washing-up.”

  Macdonald nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry to have had to bother you: it’s hard luck that you should have been involved in this business. Incidentally, your sleeping quarters are above there, I take it?” He nodded towards the gallery.

  “Yes. I sleep up there, and my brother sleeps on the divan at the end of the studio there. Do you want to use this place to-night?”

  “No. Certainly not. I have got to see Mrs. Tubbs, and I might be glad if I could use your kitchen if need be.”

  “Just as you like. I’ll leave the door to the garden open and close the one leading in here. Then you can do what you like. I’m very sure of this, Chief Inspector. The clue to this murder will not be found in my kitchen—nor with Mrs. Tubbs.”

  II

  Macdonald left the studio, and walked round to the front of the house—25, Hollyberry Hill was its description in the directory. It was too dark and too foggy for him to get any idea of the place from the medium of eyesight, but he had a pretty clear idea of the general lay-out. Hollyberry Hill was a street of old houses, many of them already derelict and waiting demolition. They had been built over a hundred years ago, square houses of early Victorian or late Georgian design, stucco-covered and not unpleasing in appearance, with symmetrical façades and vast windows: there were dark basement kitchens, Macdonald knew, their windows concealed behind built-up “rockeries,” and a flight of steps led to the front door. Each house was detached, standing in a good-sized garden, with a tradesmen’s entrance at the side, and a space on either side of the house with a path leading to the back garden. The back garden of No. 25 was almost covered by the studio, but a narrow space was left between the studio walls and the garden wall, and at the far end of the garden, so Macdonald had been told, the unwise ex-tenants of the studio had dug a “shelter,” so called—a hole in the ground which had since become half full of rain water, held by the impermeable London clay. Macdonald remembered the road vaguely because as a boy he had cycled all over Hampstead, and explored its older parts. In those days—the first decade of this century—the houses had been well-let to prosperous tenants, and their freshly-painted surfaces and big bow windows had rather taken his fancy.

  When he left the studio, he walked by the narrow path which led to the front of the house, using his torch to help him on his way. A constable stood in the front garden, swinging his arms occasionally in the endeavour to keep warm. Having recognised Macdonald he said:

  “The surgeon and camera men have left, sir. Inspectors Jenkins and Reeves are still inside. There’s no black-out in the house, barring the bedroom and kitchen, and the shutters are too far gone to get fixed up.”

  “Right. I’m afraid this is a cold job for you, Tate. The fog seems to get through everything.”

  “It does that, sir, but I think it will be clearing in an hour or two. There’s a bit of a breeze coming from the north. It’s a perishing cold night, and no mistake.”

  “We’ll see if we can raise a hot drink presently, Tate. I want you to patrol up and down this path occasionally, and listen for any sound from the studio yonder. Don’t take a header in the dug-out. There’s a good spot of extra static in it.”

  The constable laughed. “A lot of people tried that mug’s game earlier on, sir, but most of ’em have had the holes filled in since then—after the A.F.S. had pumped them dry. It was the government’s fault, you know, to start with. Advised people to dig trenches. If they’d been in Flanders they’d have known better. Undrained trenches, indeed.”

  Macdonald went up the front steps and let himself in at the door: it had been left on the latch, and once inside he flashed his torch round the spacious hall and shivered. The place was dank, cold with an even colder chill than the outside air. The paper on the walls, once “grained and varnished,” hung in strips, ghostly lines of white showing where it had come unstuck from the damp walls. The house smelt of mildew, unwholesome, sour. There was worn linoleum on the floor and the stairs, its pattern long since worn off by the passing of footsteps. As he reached the turn of the stairs, Macdonald saw a line of light beneath a door, and he advanced towards this and let himself carefully into a brightly-lighted room at the back of the house.

  III

  Mr. Albert Folliner had used his bedroom as his sole living room, that was plain enough. There was a fireplace with hobs on either side, and on the hobs stood cooking pots. A marble-topped wash-hand stand held an old enamel basin, some paper bags, and a variety of old-fashioned crockery, chipped and discoloured. Apart from the wash-stand, which was a very large one, the room was furnished with an old-fashioned double bedstead, of black iron and brass, a vast double-fronted cupboard of early Victorian design, a very worn armchair, and a deal table. On the latter stood some dirty plates and a chipped enamel teapot.

  Detective Inspector Jenkins was standing by the open wardrobe when Macdonald entered the room, and he turned with a half sigh from his task of sorting out the papers with which the cupboard was stacked.

  “What you might call a fair old mess, Chief,” said Jenkins, indicating the wardrobe and its contents. “I suppose we’ve got to go through all this stuff. Anyone might think that sorry old lunatic had left things like this on purpose, just with the idea of giving as much trouble as he could.”

  Jenkins was a man of fifty odd, a big powerfully-built fellow, growing stout now, his stubbly fair hair turning grey. He had a round, rubicund cheerful face, and blue eyes as guileless as a child’s. There was something inherently likeable about him, and he had the gift, as Macdonald knew, of making friends easily with the most diverse people.

  As he spoke, Jenkins nodded towards the bed, where the remains of Mr. Albert Folliner were shrouded from sight under a dingy sheet.

  “No object in bringing the mortuary van driver out until some of this fog’s cleared off,” added Jenkins in parenthesis. “The thing’s plain enough as far as it goes.”

  “Tell me what you make of it,” said Macdonald, and Jenkins continued:

  “Deceased was a miser, one of the real old-fashioned storybook misers. I won’t say I haven’t met one before—I have, though they’re getting less common than they used to be. D’you remember old Simple Simon, who was always getting run-in for begging on the Embankment—£525 we found under the boards in his bedroom when he died, and another fifteen pounds odd in his filthy bedding. He died of starvation at last.”

  Macdonald nodded. “I remember.”

  “Well, this old one wasn’t far off starving, I reckon. Skin and grief, as my missis says, but he must have been worth a lot of money. In there,” and Jenkins nodded towards the wardrobe, “there are records of securities he’s bought and sold—I reckon it will turn out he sold everything he’d got in the way of investments, and realised them as cash. There’s an empty cash-box on the floor there, fallen off his bed. I’d say it was probable that he took his cash-box out every night and counted over the notes he’d got in it—true to type. Every miser does it. Then someone got wind of his habits and came in and shot him, and walked off with the contents of his cash-box. That’s all plain enough.”

  Jenkins walked up to the bed and turned back the sheet: “Shot at close range, right between the eyes: the pistol’s on the floor—an old-fashioned Colt with a heavy charge. He couldn’t have shot himself very well at that angle: in any case, the cash-box is empty. Speaks for itself.” He paused a moment, and then said:

  “Well, there it i
s, Chief. What’s your guess as to the way things happened?”

  Macdonald stood silent for a moment. Then he said:

  “The pistol was on the floor: of course we can’t be certain that it was the one used for the murder until the bullet’s been examined under the comparison microscope. Any fingerprints on it?”

  “Smudges—someone had gloves on when they used it.”

  “So I would have expected—but they left the pistol here. I’d hazard a guess that the pistol belonged to deceased, and that he produced it when he realised he was going to be attacked. The attacker turned the pistol on Folliner and shot him, and then made off with the contents of the cash-box.”

  Jenkins nodded, replacing the sheet, and turning away.

  “That’s how I see it,” he said.

  Macdonald walked to the bedroom door and examined the door handle and jamb. There was no bolt, but an old-fashioned key was still in the keyhole. It turned easily—Macdonald put a pencil through the wide hole in the finger-piece of the key and turned it back and forth. Then, with a pair of pliers he drew the key out and examined its butt end.

  “Easy enough to turn that from the outside if you’d got a good pair of long-nosed pliers,” he said. “The murderer could have come upstairs, turned the key from the outside of the door and gone straight in. The probability was that the murderer then threw some missile at the old man—just enough to confuse him and render him incapable of using his pistol—and the rest followed. That’s a piece of pure surmise for you. It may all have happened entirely differently.”

  “It may—but the evidence all goes to support your reconstruction,” said Jenkins. “First, the old man had got his wardrobe door wide open and the cash-box out on his bed. So far as I can see, the room hasn’t been ransacked: most of the papers in that wardrobe are in the places where they were shoved months or years ago: everything else is the same in this one respect—nothing has been moved within the last few hours. Now I’m certain of this: no miser would admit a visitor when he’s got his treasures out and he’s gloating over them. That’s just plain common sense. The door would have been locked. I think we can take that as a certainty.” Jenkins paused, and then added: “In my judgment, this room has not been searched or ransacked in any way. The old man was in bed, and he’d got his cash-box on the bed, open—the keys are still under his pillow. He wasn’t expecting a visitor. Now for the discrepancy. Under that loose pile of old newspapers in the chair there was a postcard—from his nephew Neil presumably.” Jenkins pointed to the mantelpiece, and Macdonald walked up to it and read the card which lay there. It had no address heading it, and the message was written in a round schoolboyish hand. “Dear Uncle. I’ll come and see you on Thursday night about eight-thirty. I’ve got twenty-four hours’ leave, and I’ll come along for an hour or so. Don’t you worry. I’ll do what I can. Neil.”