by Clara Benson
‘By Jove, are you sure?’ exclaimed Freddy, who had planted the flask there himself not twenty minutes ago. He leapt up, and was just in time to prevent Bert from reaching into the narrow space and pulling it out. ‘Better not,’ he said. ‘Finger-prints.’
‘What?’ said Bert.
‘If you touch it, you’ll put finger-prints on it, and the police will think you took it but had a change of heart at the last minute. Use a handkerchief.’
The flask was removed carefully from its hiding-place.
‘Now, how on earth did it get there?’ said Bert.
‘Most odd,’ said Freddy, then paused as though struck by a sudden thought. ‘Wasn’t Maltravers a little the worse for wear when he got out of the car? I expect he staggered against it and dropped the flask down there as he passed.’
‘Well I never,’ said Bert.
‘You’d better take it to Scotland Yard as soon as you can,’ said Freddy.
‘Can’t you do it?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Freddy. ‘We’ll both get into trouble if they find out I warned you. Either they’ll think you really did steal it, then persuaded me to hand it in with some sob-story or other, or they’ll think we cooked the whole thing up together for the purposes of news. Inspector Entwistle doesn’t think much of the press, you see. He seems to have the strangest idea that I make up my stories. No; much better not to bring me into it at all, then you can take the credit for having found it for them.’
‘All right, then,’ said Bert. ‘Does that mean you’re not going to put it in the paper?’
He seemed a little disappointed.
‘Oh, I’ll put it in the paper, all right, but not until the police say so. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to name you as the man who found the missing murder weapon.’
‘I’d like that,’ said Bert. ‘I’ve never seen my name in print before.’
‘Well, keep a look-out in the Clarion, and I’m certain you’ll see it before long,’ said Freddy. ‘Now, don’t forget—take it to Scotland Yard straightaway.’
He bade the taxi-driver a cheery goodbye and headed off down Kingsway. As soon as he was out of sight he let out a great sigh of relief and half a whistle.
‘Let’s hope that’s the end of that,’ he said to himself. ‘Mother ought to be in the clear now—at least as far as all this business of tampering with the body is concerned. With any luck the police will forget all that and concern themselves with finding out who killed Ticky.’ He frowned. ‘I wonder who did do it, though?’ he went on. ‘I suppose it must have been one of them, but whoever it was did a good job of getting the poison in there discreetly. They must all have been pretty drunk not to have noticed it. Still, one would have thought the waiters at least might have seen something. I wonder—’
Here he paused, as a thought passed fleetingly through his mind. What was it, now? Something to do with the flask. Was it something his mother had said? He could not remember, but he was sure an idea had come to him just then. They had originally intended to buy Ticky a pocket-watch. Now, why was that significant? For it was significant, he was sure. But why? The thought seemed determined to elude him for the present. Perhaps it would come back to him later. In the meantime, he turned his mind back to the situation at hand. It looked as though whoever had committed the murder had done so for nothing, now that Weaver had taken over the concern. Freddy did not envy Ticky’s manservant one bit.
‘He’s a brave one, after what happened to his master,’ he said to himself. ‘Or foolhardy, I should say. I shouldn’t like to be in his shoes if someone really is going around murdering blackmailers. He’d better watch his step or he’s likely to be next.’
And so saying, he returned to the Clarion’s offices, where he was late with a moralizing piece on the advisability of honesty and plain dealing as the foundations for a happy life.
INSPECTOR ENTWISTLE PICKED his way gingerly among the mess in the sitting-room of number 24, Caroline Terrace, and peered out of the window. It was Sunday morning, and the street was quiet. He turned back and looked at Dr. Ingleby as he crouched over the prostrate figure of Weaver, who was lying face-down, the handle of a large knife protruding from his back.
‘Straight to the heart, I’d say,’ said Ingleby. ‘He probably didn’t feel a thing.’
‘Not much blood,’ said Sergeant Bird, who had been watching the doctor dispassionately.
‘No,’ said Ingleby. ‘It obviously didn’t hit any major blood vessels. Just a fraction of an inch to the right or left, however, and it would be a different story.’
‘When did it happen?’ said Entwistle.
‘Some time last night, at a guess. All the signs are that he’s been dead a good twelve hours or so.’
‘Do you think it’s the same person who broke in before, sir?’ said Bird, addressing the inspector.
‘Could be,’ said Entwistle. ‘Weaver said they didn’t take anything the first time, so perhaps they came back for another try, and he happened to be in the way.’ He frowned, and regarded the rug, which had been turned back. ‘Here’s something queer, though,’ he said. ‘They looked under here last time. And in that chest over there. Do you remember, Bird? Weaver complained that they’d scratched one of the drawers.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Bird. ‘That’s true. I see what you mean. Why would they look in the same place twice, if they didn’t find whatever they were looking for the first time?’
‘Rather a waste of effort,’ said Entwistle. ‘Unless, of course, this is someone quite different.’
‘Seems a bit too much of a coincidence, don’t you think, sir? I mean to say, is it likely that two different people would break into the house within a week?’
‘Not in the normal way of things, but it’s pretty clear this wasn’t a normal burglary.’
‘Then you don’t think Weaver was killed when he interrupted the thief?’
Entwistle shook his head.
‘Any indications of a struggle?’ he said to Ingleby.
‘Not that I can see,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s a clean blow, and you can see he wasn’t running away by the direction he’s facing. Naturally, I can’t comment until I’ve done a proper examination of the body, but if you want my immediate opinion, I should say this was a quite deliberate killing. I think he turned his back for a second and paid the price for it.’
Just then, P. C. Johnson entered the room.
‘We can’t find any signs of a break-in, sir,’ he said.
‘Are you sure you’ve looked properly?’ said Bird. ‘After all, you missed the flask.’
‘I looked everywhere in that taxi,’ said Johnson with some heat, for he had been defending himself against this charge since Friday. ‘I know I looked down behind the spare wheel. I reckon the taxi-driver had it all along.’
‘Well, if he did, he had the sense not to put his finger-prints all over it,’ said Bird. He had his own suspicions as to what had really happened to the flask, but since Bert Evans was sticking firmly to his story, and had denied having been influenced by anybody, there was little to be done about it at present. ‘At least that’s something. And lucky for him he didn’t take it into his head to drink from it, or we’d have three murders to think about, not two.’
‘Is it certain that’s where the poison was, then, sir?’ said Johnson.
‘I’ll say,’ said Bird. ‘There was enough nicotine in it to kill a man three times over. Now, are you sure nobody’s broken in?’
‘Yes, sir. All the windows are shut, and there’s no indication that any of them have been forced.’
Entwistle and Bird looked at each other.
‘Then it must have been someone he knew,’ said Entwistle. ‘He must have let them in through the front door.’
‘One of the crowd from Babcock’s, do you suppose?’ said Bird.
‘It must be,’ said Entwistle. ‘Although I’m damned if I can see why. Still, there must be some connection between the two murders. It can’t possibly be a coincidence.’
‘Are we to assume that the person who killed Weaver is the same as the person who killed Maltravers?’ said Bird.
‘Oh, yes, I think we must—at least until we get evidence to the contrary. But what was the motive?’
‘Money’s a popular one,’ suggested Bird.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Entwistle. ‘The bank book. Maltravers was depositing regular sums of three or four hundred pounds a month into his bank account. All in cash. Where did it come from? He didn’t have a job that we know of, or a private income, although he was investing some of the money rather tidily in funds.’
‘Drugs?’ said Bird. ‘It’s quite a disease of the upper classes, I understand. Someone has to supply the stuff.’
‘Perhaps. Although we didn’t find any evidence of it when we searched the house the other day. What else?’
‘Blackmail?’ said Bird.
‘That seems more likely to me,’ said the inspector. ‘It seems to fit with the deposits to his account. He’d collect the payments in cash, then take them to the bank once he’d amassed a certain sum. That way nobody could say where the money had come from.’
‘But if he knew things to people’s disadvantage, and was demanding money off them in return for his silence, wouldn’t he have kept evidence?’ said Bird. ‘I mean to say, it’s easier to blackmail someone if you have proof of what they’ve been up to. But we didn’t find anything like that the other day.’
‘True,’ said Entwistle. ‘Still, it would explain the burglaries, since once Maltravers was dead his victims were bound to come looking for whatever he had on them. I wonder if it really is here in the house. Weaver said nothing had been taken after the burglary on Monday, but perhaps whoever broke in didn’t search hard enough. Let’s have another look. You go through those drawers, and I’ll search his writing-desk. They’ve finished taking photographs and dusting for finger-prints, haven’t they? Are you done, Ingleby?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ said the doctor. ‘I’ll take him out of your way now and let you get on. Johnson, go and fetch Lamb, and bring the stretcher.’
There was some little ado as the mortal remains of Weaver were carried carefully from the house and taken away, then Entwistle and Bird settled down to search through Ticky Maltravers’ personal effects, in an attempt to find out exactly what had prompted someone to murder both him and his manservant within the space of ten days. For a while there was no sound but the opening and closing of drawers and the rustle of papers, then at last Inspector Entwistle gave a great sigh and slammed shut the desk.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘What about you?’
‘Nothing much,’ said Bird. ‘Only this. What do you think it is?’
He handed his superior a letter. Entwistle glanced at it, then read it more closely.
‘It’s a statement of account from a clippings bureau,’ he said. ‘Interesting.’
‘A clippings bureau? Isn’t that one of those places that cuts out stories from the paper and sends them to you?’
‘That’s right,’ said Entwistle.
‘Do you think he was collecting dirt on his friends?’ said Bird.
‘It looks rather like it,’ said the inspector. He looked back at the letter. ‘We’d better speak to these people and find out what they sent him.’
‘It’s an ugly job,’ remarked Bird. ‘Prying into people’s secrets, I mean.’
‘It can’t be helped,’ said Entwistle. ‘We don’t have much in the way of evidence—only a silver flask with brandy and nicotine in it, and no way of knowing how the nicotine got in there—so the next step is to find out who had a motive.’
‘It’s just a pity they passed the flask around the table,’ said Bird. ‘They couldn’t have confused things more if they’d tried. Why, the thing’s covered in finger-prints. Any of them might have done it.’
‘Presumably only one of them did, though.’
‘And we still don’t know who moved the body, or why, or where from,’ went on Bird. ‘It’s a puzzle, all right.’
‘Well, we won’t solve it by sitting here,’ said Entwistle. ‘Let’s search the house again. And this time, look for loose floorboards. If Maltravers was a blackmailer then there must be something in writing.’
AMELIA DRINKWATER AND her mother had just returned from their Sunday walk in the Park, when the telephone rang. Blanche had taken her customary position before the looking-glass, and was busy adjusting her hair after removing her hat, so Amelia went to answer it. Blanche listened with half an ear, then stopped what she was doing and turned her head slightly at the sound of her daughter’s voice, which was raised in astonishment. Two minutes later Amelia came in.
‘That was Larry,’ she said. ‘Weaver’s been found murdered!’
‘Who?’ said Blanche.
‘Weaver. Ticky’s man.’
Blanche stared at her daughter for a moment, then turned back to the glass and went on with what she had been doing.
‘Was that his name?’ she said carelessly. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. What was it this time? A knock on the head? A bullet to the brain?’
‘He was stabbed,’ said Amelia.
‘At home?’
‘Yes. The police think he may have disturbed a burglar, because the place was in a mess.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Blanche. ‘A burglar, indeed! If the police think that then they’re more stupid than I thought.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Amelia.
‘Never mind,’ said Blanche. ‘So, the plot thickens, it seems. I only hope Cynthia has an alibi.’
‘Goodness me, will it come to that, do you think?’ said Amelia. ‘It hadn’t occurred to me. But yes, you’re right—the police are bound to come back and start asking questions again. They’ll want to know where you were at the time of the murder. I wish I’d thought to ask Larry when he died. What time did you get back last night?’
‘Oh, lateish. I can’t remember exactly when,’ said Blanche vaguely.
‘Can anyone vouch for that?’
‘Probably. I dare say I can find someone.’
‘You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously, Mummy,’ said Amelia. ‘Why, don’t you realize they might arrest you if you can’t prove where you were?’
‘Nobody is going to arrest me,’ said Blanche. ‘I haven’t been to Caroline Terrace in weeks, so I couldn’t possibly have done it. I expect it was one of the others. I wonder which?’
Amelia said nothing, but darted a worried glance at her mother.
IN DOVER STREET, Captain Atherton was sipping tea. His man, Mahomet, stood respectfully to attention.
‘Stabbed in the back, eh?’ said Atherton. ‘Well, there’s a turn-up, although I can’t say I’m especially surprised. I suppose the police will be all over his house again, now.’
‘They will find nothing,’ said Mahomet. ‘I am certain of that.’
‘That’s something, at least. Still, I wish we could put an end to this business once and for all. It’s damned inconvenient.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ said Mahomet. ‘Is there anything you would wish me to do?’
‘I don’t see what you can do. The letters have disappeared—presumably hidden somewhere. Unless you have any ideas as to where they might be, all we can do is to wait and hope they never turn up.’
‘There is no reason to think they will,’ said Mahomet. ‘It is unlikely that Weaver had time to make arrangements to pass them on to anybody else, since he died so soon after his employer.’
Something in the tone of his voice caused Captain Atherton to lift his head.
‘I dare say you’re right,’ he said. Then he went on casually, ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about it, do you?’
‘No, sir,’ said Mahomet. ‘I have no idea who did it.’
Atherton was not looking at his servant at that moment, but if he had been, he might have seen his own curiosity reflected in Mahomet’s eyes. After a moment the man begged leave and left the room, and Captain Atherton was
left to drink his tea.
‘WHY DIDN’T YOU tell me you knew?’ said Lady Bendish to her son. Her eyes were large and dark, and filled with despair.
‘How could I?’ said Larry Bendish. ‘I thought about it occasionally, but I always lost my nerve before I got to the point. And besides, it seemed to me that it was much better not to say a word. I didn’t want things to change, you see. And this changes everything.’
‘How long have you known?’
‘Since I was eight.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Lady Bendish in horror. ‘How can this be?’
He looked uncomfortable.
‘I didn’t mean to,’ he said. ‘I promise you I didn’t. But you dropped a letter once—I remember, it was shortly after Father died—and I picked it up. I didn’t mean to read it, but I saw one or two words that caught my attention, and before I knew it I’d read the whole thing. Of course, I was too young to understand properly at the time, so I kept quiet about it. But when I got older, I realized that we’d both be in trouble if anyone found out. You know how Father’s family hate us. They tried their best to overturn his will, and prove that he hadn’t been in his right mind when he married you. Of course they failed. He wasn’t a young man, but there was nothing wrong with his brain. But I can just imagine how they’d lick their lips if they found this out. They’d have you thrown out on the street before you could say “knife.”’
‘Your father was an excellent man,’ murmured Lady Bendish sadly. ‘I only wish he had lived to see you grow up.’
‘I hated what they said about you,’ said Larry fiercely. ‘They were always insinuating things, as though you’d somehow hypnotized him into marriage—as though you were only interested in him for his fame.’
‘Well, I certainly didn’t marry him for his money, since he gave most of it away,’ said Lady Bendish. ‘He was always so terribly generous. I loved him for it, of course, but I do wish he’d provided a little better for you.’
‘He provided perfectly well for me,’ said Larry. ‘I have nothing to complain about, and nor does Ann.’
