by Clara Benson
The manager of Babcock’s was shocked and desolated to hear the news of Ticky’s tragic fate, for Mr. Maltravers had been one of his best and most generous customers. Mindful that it would not do to have people thinking that his clients were in the habit of dropping dead after dining at his establishment, he expressed himself eager to help the police in any way he could. The party had been a lively one, he said, but it had been a busy night so he had had little time to attend to them. However, he would summon Antoine, the maître d’hotel, who would no doubt have more to say. Antoine was equally shocked, and not a little worried that he was about to be blamed for the death in some way, and so was only too willing to tell what he knew. The menu was consulted and various under-waiters brought forth, and at length it was established to everyone’s satisfaction that if a noxious substance had indeed been introduced to Ticky’s dinner (and please God it had not), then it had certainly not originated in the kitchen, for all the food presented that evening had been served to the whole party from shared dishes—so one person alone could not have been taken ill. Would it have been possible for someone to poison Ticky’s food after it had been served, Inspector Entwistle wanted to know? As to that, said Antoine, he did not know. Mr. Maltravers had been seated between Mrs. Pilkington-Soames and Mrs. Van Leeuwen, but he did not like to think that either of them might have been responsible for such a heinous act. At the mention of Cynthia’s name, Sergeant Bird’s ears pricked up, and he frowned but said nothing. Inspector Entwistle then wanted to know what the party had had to drink, and did his best not to whistle at the lengthy list of wines consumed.
‘And they all partook of the same drinks, you say?’ he said.
Antoine could not say for certain, but he could say that wine from each bottle had been poured into at least two or three different glasses and, he could only assume, had therefore been drunk by two or three different people. Coffee had been ordered, but, again, had been served from one pot.
‘Then it sounds as though it wasn’t in his drink, either,’ said Entwistle. ‘If everyone shared all the wines then he wouldn’t have been the only one to fall ill—unless, of course, one of the ladies sitting next to him put something in his glass. We shall have to ask the members of the party, just to be sure. Did he take a digestive after dinner?’
‘There was a rare Cusenier,’ said Antoine. ‘He was the only one of the party to drink it, but I know it was not poisoned, because he was so kind as to give me the rest of the bottle, that it might be shared among all the waiters. We all had some and it was magnifique—sans pareil. It was most certainly not poisoned.’
‘Hmm,’ said Entwistle. ‘That’s rather a facer, then. Perhaps he didn’t take the stuff here after all.’
‘I should be most relieved to hear that,’ said Antoine. ‘As you say, I do not see how the poison could have been introduced into anything that was consumed that night. Unless, of course, it was in the flask,’ he added.
‘Which flask?’ said Entwistle, suddenly alert.
‘Why, the little silver flask they gave him. I believe it was a birthday present or something of the kind. It was engraved with his name. He poured some of the Cognac into it, and I was forced to turn my face away.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Mr. Maltravers was a good customer, of course, but it was a scandal what he did there, and I did not wish him to see my thoughts.’
‘Do you think someone put poison in the flask?’ said the inspector.
Antoine shrugged.
‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘But any one of them might have done it when they passed it around the table to examine it and exclaim over it.’
Entwistle and Bird glanced at one another.
‘Are you quite sure that is what they did?’ said Entwistle.
‘Quite sure,’ said Antoine.
‘You say he unwrapped the present, then put the Cognac in it, and then passed it around the table?’
‘Non, first was the passing-around, then was the Cognac. Gaston, this is what happened, hein?’
‘Oui, monsieur,’ said the young waiter thus addressed, who had been standing nearby in case he was wanted. ‘The ladies screamed with much delight at the flask, although the gentlemen were a little more reserved.’
‘I don’t suppose you saw anybody put something in it, did you?’ said the inspector, looking from Antoine to Gaston, then, as they both shook their heads, went on, ‘I mean to say, it might not have been obvious that they were doing it. It might have looked as though they were examining it closely, or feeling the quality of it.’
‘I saw nothing of the kind,’ said Gaston.
‘Nor did I,’ said Antoine. ‘Or, shall we say, they all looked at it closely, and so for that matter it might have been any of them.’
‘He didn’t happen to leave the flask here when he left, did he?’ said Sergeant Bird.
Both men shook their heads, and Entwistle and Bird glanced at one another again.
‘It’s all looking very suspicious,’ said the former as they left Babcock’s half an hour later. ‘Not least because we now seem to have a missing silver flask. There was certainly nothing of the sort in the dead man’s pockets.’
‘No,’ said Bird. ‘I wonder what happened to it.’
‘Well, this Antoine was sure he had it with him when he left. I wonder whether the murderer took it. If that’s how the poison was administered then that would explain why it wasn’t found on him.’
‘Might it have dropped out of his pocket?’
‘It might have,’ said Entwistle, ‘but not in Caroline Terrace, or we’d have found it. But the restaurant seem to think he took a cab home, so it’s possible he dropped it there. We’ll have to track the driver down.’ He took out his notebook and consulted it as they walked. ‘Let’s have a look at this list of names. Who have we got here? Denis and Nancy Beasley. Captain Maurice Atherton—is that the famous explorer, do you think? Lady Bendish, Blanche Van Leeuwen, Cynthia Pilkington-Soames. We’ll have to speak to them all—and especially those last two, since they were apparently sitting next to him. Perhaps we ought to wait until Ingleby has more to tell us about what killed him.’
Sergeant Bird was frowning again.
‘Pilkington-Soames was the name of that young reporter,’ he said. ‘He said he was a friend of Maltravers. I wonder if it’s any relation.’
‘It sounds like it,’ said Inspector Entwistle with sudden interest. ‘Why was he nosing around? Is he really press?’
‘He had a card from the Clarion, and it looked real enough to me. I wonder whether he knows anything. He was trying to get information out of me the other day.’
‘Was he, indeed? Did you tell him anything?’
‘I didn’t have much to tell,’ said the sergeant. ‘We didn’t know anything ourselves on Friday. But he did hint that he had an “in” on that sort of society, and that he was willing to try and find out what he could about what happened.’
‘Presumably in exchange for an “in” on what we’re doing, yes? Well, I don’t much like the sound of that. Better keep him at arm’s length.’
‘I expect you’re right, sir,’ said Bird, ‘but I shouldn’t say no to anything he might care to tell us, if he really can find out information that we can’t. And there’s the name, too. If he is related to one of the suspects it might be better to allow him to think we’re helping him. That way he might let something slip.’
‘Well, just as long as you don’t give him anything confidential from our side,’ said Entwistle. ‘We don’t want him jumping to half-baked conclusions and printing them in that paper of his. The press are more a hindrance than a help at the best of times, and the last thing we need now is to have this fellow wandering about, getting in the way and making the case more complicated than it already is.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be careful,’ promised the sergeant.
TRUE TO HIS promise, Freddy visited number 24, Caroline Terrace several times on Saturday and Sunday in an attempt to catch Ticky’s servant, Weaver, at hom
e, but it seemed the man had gone away for the weekend, for there was no answer to his knock. By his seventh unsuccessful attempt on Sunday evening, Freddy was beginning to contemplate whether it might not be possible to get in through a window and search the place, but swiftly brought himself up short. He had already been drawn further into the affair than he liked, and he had no wish to add breaking and entering to the list of offences that might be held against him if the police ever found out the part he had played in Ticky’s last journey. No; his mother had got herself into this scrape, and while he was willing to help her as far as he could, he drew the line at risking a spell in prison. He would wait until Weaver returned, and get into the house through the front door.
On Monday he was wanted at the paper, and so had no opportunity to visit Caroline Terrace until late in the afternoon, but when he eventually arrived he found to his dismay that the police had got there before him, for there was a stolid-looking constable standing outside the front door, writing in a notebook. Freddy’s first thought was that they had found out Ticky’s secret and had come to search the house, but the policeman soon informed him otherwise.
‘Burglary,’ he said briefly, when Freddy had introduced himself and his newspaper. ‘Man went away for the weekend and got back to find that the house had been broken into.’
‘Anything stolen?’ said Freddy, feeling in his pocket for a pencil—although his mind was not strictly on the story, for it was mainly occupied in wondering which of Ticky’s victims had got there before him.
‘Doesn’t look like it. Odd, as there’s some valuable stuff in the house. The man who owns the place died a few days ago, and his manservant was away, so it may be that someone had been watching the house, looking for an opportunity to get in when it was empty.’
‘I can’t see any broken windows,’ said Freddy, looking up at the house. ‘I take it they got in through the back?’
‘That’s right,’ agreed the constable. ‘There’s a mews of sorts on Bourne Street. It looks like they went in that way and over the back wall.’
‘One thief? More than one?’
‘Just the one, it looks like.’
‘I wonder why he didn’t take anything,’ said Freddy.
‘Beats me,’ said the constable. ‘Perhaps he was disturbed before he had the chance, although he was there long enough, to judge by the state of the place. There are drawers overturned everywhere and papers scattered all over the floor. I guess he was looking for something in particular.’
‘I see,’ said Freddy thoughtfully. ‘Do you think he found it?’
‘Not according to the manservant,’ said the other. ‘He wasn’t happy at the mess, but he couldn’t see anything missing. He’s just having another look now.’ Here he stopped and looked Freddy up and down. ‘I must say, you press chaps sniff things out pretty quickly. How did you know to come here?’
‘I didn’t, really,’ said Freddy. ‘I was here about another case. The man who died last week. I understand there were suspicious circumstances, and I was just passing on the off-chance that I might find Inspector Entwistle here.’
‘He’s supposed to be on his way,’ said the policeman. ‘But he’s a busy man, so who knows when he’ll arrive?’
‘Is Weaver in the house now?’ said Freddy. ‘Would you mind awfully if I knocked? He might be able to give me something for the paper.’
‘We-ell, I’m not sure about that,’ said the constable doubtfully. ‘I don’t know whether that’s allowed—’
He was interrupted just then by the sound of the front door opening behind him. A man came out and said:
‘I have had another look around, constable, and I cannot see anything missing. I think we must assume that the burglar was frightened off by something, since Mr. Maltravers had many valuable articles in his possession which one would expect to have been of great interest to a thief.’
Freddy examined this newcomer with interest. Weaver was of middle height, with slick, black hair and a face that was almost ghostly white. In appearance he was not unlike Ticky Maltravers himself, albeit some years younger. Although there was nothing strictly offensive in his appearance—for he was perfectly clean and tidy—there was something nonetheless repellent about him. Whether it were his unsmiling manner, or his reluctance to meet one’s eye, could not be told, but if any man could have been said to look like a blackmailer’s manservant, then Weaver was that man. Freddy now seized his chance.
‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Mr. Weaver, isn’t it? I’m from the Clarion.’ Here he waved his card, but carefully kept his thumb over the surname in case Weaver recognized it. ‘I understand your employer died suddenly a few days ago, and I hear you were quite his right-hand man. They tell me he never stirred without you, and relied wholly upon your counsel. I don’t suppose you’d care to say a few words to our readers about the terrible tragedy? I know Mr. Maltravers was well known in high circles, but I think it only fair that everyone know that his fame and success weren’t all his own work, and that the value of a loyal servant simply can’t be over-estimated.’
Weaver’s expression did not change during this speech, and it was impossible to say whether he believed a word of it. He was clearly very wary.
‘What is it you wish to know?’ he said.
‘Suppose we go inside,’ suggested Freddy. ‘It’s coldish out here, and not exactly conducive to talking about personal matters, what with the police crawling all over the place—if you’ll excuse my saying so,’ he added over his shoulder to the constable.
Weaver hesitated for a moment.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But I believe we must remain in the hall, as the rest of the house is at present unfit for occupation following this most unfortunate burglary.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Freddy, following him into the house. ‘Despicable behaviour, what? I mean to say, taking advantage of someone’s death to rob his house. It’s hardly the mark of an honourable man, is it? Not that theft is an honourable profession, of course, but one might have supposed them to have some level below which they will not stoop.’
‘Alas, it seems not,’ said Weaver. He paused outside the door to the sitting-room and pushed it open. ‘As you can see, the burglar went through the house very thoroughly.’
Freddy peered in and saw that he was right: the whole room had been turned upside-down. Tables had been upended and cushions dragged off chairs, while a whole bookshelf had been emptied onto the floor, and a tall lamp stood tipped half over by the window, its shade comically askew. Even the rug had been rolled up. Whatever the thief had been looking for, he had obviously searched with a fine-tooth comb.
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Freddy. ‘That’s going to take some time to clear up. This burglar of yours is rather destructive, I see. I expect things wouldn’t seem half so bad if he’d left the place tidy. But nothing was taken, you say?’
‘I do not think so.’
‘That’s a queer thing, don’t you think? Why go to all the bother, if not to help oneself to the silver? I don’t suppose the Burglars’ Association will be giving this chap a merit card.’
‘The thief was not looking for ordinary valuables,’ said Weaver.
‘No? Then what was he looking for?’
The man did not reply immediately, but the corners of his mouth turned up briefly in a complacent smile. It did not suit him and the effect was somewhat alarming. Then he fixed Freddy with a cold, insolent stare, and said:
‘Whatever it was, he did not find it, because it is not here. Nobody who comes will ever find it, so you may tell them they needn’t bother.’
‘I don’t quite understand,’ said Freddy, taken aback.
‘Oh, there’s no need to pretend. You may not know me, but I know perfectly well who you are, Mr. Pilkington-Soames. I make it my business to know people. Mr. Maltravers found me a most satisfactory servant in that respect.’
‘I’m sure he did,’ said Freddy. ‘And I expect he left you well provided for, eh?’
‘Th
at is so,’ said Weaver with a bow. ‘Very well provided for, as a matter of fact.’ Again there was the unpleasant smile. ‘You may tell your mother that I shall be most happy to see her here on the first of next month. Mr. Maltravers was somewhat irregular in his habits, but I propose to make it a regular thing. I find it easier to keep accounts that way.’
‘Ah,’ said Freddy. There was no doubt at all that the interview was going very badly. Not only had he not succeeded in finding the evidence of blackmail, it was also now abundantly clear that Ticky’s death had not brought it to a halt, but had merely caused responsibility for it to pass to someone else. That being the case, there seemed little point in continuing the conversation.
‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘I shall—er—tell my mother what you said.’
‘Do,’ said Weaver. ‘You might also mention that I am not as foolish as my employer was. He made the mistake of trusting his friends, and died for it—oh yes, I am quite certain that is what happened. I dare say we shall never find out who did it, since naturally nobody will want the police to look into the matter too closely—after all, who knows what uncomfortable truths might emerge? But I have the advantage of him in that respect, as I am of lowly status, and nobody will invite me to dinner for my birthday. You are not the first to come knocking. I have had one or two visitors already today, but I sent them away. Let it be understood that I trust nobody.’
‘I should say that was very wise, in your line of work,’ said Freddy, and Weaver smirked.
‘Until next time,’ he said with another bow.
Freddy went out and took a deep breath of fresh air.
‘The Tick and the Weevil,’ he said to himself. ‘What a loathsome pair they make!’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ said the policeman.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Freddy. ‘I don’t think this will make much of a story after all, constable. Weaver had nothing to tell me that I didn’t already know. I think I shall have to look elsewhere.’
