Design For Murder

by Francis Durbridge

  ‘And what did you make of Doctor Fraser when you had me safely out of the way?’ smiled Sally.

  ‘She seemed quite an affable sort of person,’ said Wyatt in a non-committal tone. ‘What did you make of her?’

  ‘I rather liked her. Did she have much to say?’

  ‘Yes, quite a lot.’

  He gave her a brief outline of Doctor Fraser’s experience.

  ‘Do you believe all that?’ asked Sally when he had finished.

  ‘Do you?’ he countered. ‘You’re the woman; you’re supposed to work by intuition.’

  She shook her head thoughtfully.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she had to confess. ‘She doesn’t look the type who would make up an involved story like that.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ he reminded her, ‘we have to remember that she is a doctor; a woman with a brain well above the average. I shouldn’t think concocting a story like that would be beyond her powers.’

  ‘Is there no way of checking it?’

  ‘Not till we get back to Town. I think it can wait till then.’

  Sally left the table and stood by the window, watching a cart move slowly along the narrow street outside.

  ‘What are we going to do today?’ she inquired eagerly.

  Wyatt slowly tipped all the remaining sugar into his last cup of coffee, then said:

  ‘I thought we’d go out and see Tyson this morning, then probably catch the 3.45 back to London.’

  ‘Must we go to London?’ asked Sally rather wistfully.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ve got to see Sir James as soon as possible.’ He lit a cigarette and sipped his coffee. When the door opened to admit a handsome young man, they both had the idea that he was another guest at the inn. He was well dressed; his hair was smoothly plastered and he had a neat toothbrush moustache which distracted attention from his slightly receding chin.

  ‘I must apologize for interrupting you,’ he began, ‘but if you could spare me a few minutes …’

  Sally turned and eyed the intruder curiously, while Wyatt rose.

  ‘It’s Mr Maurice Knight, isn’t it?’ he inquired.

  ‘Why yes, how did you—’

  ‘Your picture’s been in the papers rather a lot,’ Wyatt reminded him.

  ‘Oh, yes, I was forgetting that wretched business for the moment – at least, that aspect of it.’

  He smiled at Sally.

  ‘I am sorry to barge in like this, Mrs Wyatt, but I’m on my way back to Town, and I did rather want to see Mr Wyatt for a few minutes, if he can spare the time.’

  ‘I’ll ring for some fresh coffee,’ said Sally. ‘I’m sure we could drink another cup – if you’ll join us.’

  Wyatt pulled up a chair for their guest, and when the landlord had taken their order, he looked a trifle apprehensive.

  ‘I suppose it’s all right to talk here,’ he began in a low voice.

  ‘As good as anywhere, I should imagine,’ replied Wyatt. ‘I don’t think we can possibly be overheard.’

  Maurice Knight sat on the edge of his chair and leaned forward; he spoke in a confidential tone.

  ‘Mr Wyatt, you know why I came to Shorecombe?’

  ‘I could probably guess,’ said Wyatt.

  ‘I wanted to find out what had brought my fiancée, Barbara Willis, down here.’ He suddenly became tense. ‘I wanted to find out the swine who deliberately, brutally, and sadistically strangled her.’

  Sally gave a little shudder.

  ‘I’m sorry – please forgive me, Mrs Wyatt … you understand I’ve been very upset …’

  ‘Did you satisfy your curiosity, Mr Knight?’ inquired Wyatt evenly.

  Knight shook his head somewhat wistfully.

  ‘Even as an amateur detective I’m afraid I’m a complete washout,’ he had to admit. ‘But I did stumble across one rather interesting point, Mr Wyatt. That’s why I wanted to see you.’

  At that moment Fred Johnson returned with the coffee. After he had left Wyatt said:

  ‘Well, Mr Knight? What was it you discovered?’

  Knight leaned forward again, and said:

  ‘Last night, Mr Wyatt, when I heard about your accident, I began to put two and two together. You were on your way to see Mr Tyson last night, weren’t you?’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I went to see Tyson myself a couple of days back.’ He stirred his coffee, then added significantly: ‘Do you know what happened, Mr Wyatt?’

  ‘I haven’t an idea.’

  Knight dropped his voice to an even more confidential level.

  ‘I went to see Tyson in my car. When I reached the bridge, the one where you had your accident, I heard another car coming behind me. He was blowing his horn, and I pulled over to let him pass. Suddenly, and quite deliberately, he attempted to force my car off the road.’

  ‘But that’s exactly what happened to us!’ cried Sally excitedly.

  ‘Go on, Mr Knight,’ said Wyatt.

  ‘Fortunately for me,’ continued Knight, ‘I went into a skid, or he’d have forced me right over the bridge. He was off like the devil, of course.’

  ‘Didn’t you follow him?’ asked Wyatt.

  ‘Well, I was a bit shaken,’ Knight admitted. ‘And there was really not much point in my chasing him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because,’ explained Knight impressively, ‘I managed to get his number.’

  Sally sat up straight in her chair.

  ‘You got his number!’ she repeated.

  Knight slowly took a small, black notebook from his waistcoat pocket and read out:

  ‘GKC 973. Perhaps you’ll take a note of it, Mr Wyatt.’

  Wyatt did so.

  ‘It looks as if someone was trying to prevent you from seeing Mr Tyson,’ said Sally shrewdly.

  ‘Exactly, Mrs Wyatt. And I think the attempt on your life was for precisely the same reason.’

  Wyatt balanced on the two rear legs of his chair and considered this.

  ‘It’s quite a theory, Mr Knight,’ he said at last.

  Sally was looking puzzled now.

  ‘But surely Tyson can’t know anything about this business,’ she put in. ‘After all, he’s just an old fisherman who happened to discover the body.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Mrs Wyatt, if I were you,’ said Knight. Wyatt gave him a quick glance.

  ‘You saw Tyson?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ said Knight, ‘I saw him. He was annoyed and rather bad tempered.’

  ‘I expect he’s had quite a lot of people questioning him lately,’ suggested Sally.

  ‘I have an idea he’s holding something back,’ persisted Knight, turning to Wyatt. ‘I wish you’d go and see him, Mr Wyatt. I think a dose of third degree might not do any harm.’

  Wyatt shrugged.

  ‘I’m afraid third degree is hardly in my line,’ he said slowly. ‘But I certainly propose to see Mr Tyson.’

  Knight rose at once.

  ‘Good – I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear you say that,’ he declared. ‘When do you think you’ll go?’

  ‘Some time this morning, I dare say.’

  ‘That’s fine. I hope you’ll catch him in a better temper – and if he isn’t, don’t hesitate to throw a scare into him.’

  ‘I rather gather that you don’t much care for Mr Tyson,’ said Wyatt with a faint smile.

  ‘I think he knows more than he’s told anyone so far.’ He finished his coffee and picked up his hat.

  ‘I must rush off now. Perhaps I’ll see you in London?’

  ‘It’s quite possible,’ nodded Wyatt, taking his stick and crossing to the door with him.

  When he returned a minute later, he found Sally standing at the window watching their departing visitor.

  ‘Well?’ said Wyatt.

  ‘He’s much too good-looking,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘I thought he had a singularly weak face,’ said W
yatt.

  ‘He’s a typical playboy, of course.’

  ‘Do you think he was telling the truth about that car?’

  ‘I can easily get it checked when we’re in Town.’

  ‘If he was telling the truth,’ continued Sally, ‘it rather looks as if there is some sort of plot to prevent people going to see Mr Tyson.’

  ‘I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,’ he conceded. ‘All the same, we are going to see Tyson – this very morning, just as soon as I can get a car.’

  Sally turned from the window.

  ‘Darling, why don’t we walk over there? It’s only four miles, and it’s a lovely morning.’

  ‘All right,’ he agreed, ‘if you’re quite sure you feel up to it.’

  ‘I feel fine.’

  Two hours later they were slowly climbing the cliff road on which Bill Tyson’s cottage stood. They had enjoyed their walk, but Sally was feeling a little tired and was holding on to her husband’s arm. Occasionally they stopped to admire the view across the bay, or to watch a seagull as it swooped overhead.

  There was a sudden sound of footsteps descending the rough road, and round a corner came Hugo Linder, whistling to himself. He greeted them warmly.

  ‘I thought you were going back to Town this morning,’ said Wyatt casually.

  ‘In half an hour,’ replied Linder. ‘I’ve just been to say goodbye to Tyson.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, that’s where we’re going. Is the old boy in?’

  ‘Yes, he’s in all right,’ said Linder, with a certain amount of hesitation, ‘but I’m afraid you won’t find him in a very good humour. He seems quite morose just lately.’

  ‘How far is the cottage?’ asked Sally.

  ‘Only just round the next bend, Mrs Wyatt. It’s quite a climb up here, but I always think it’s worth it.’

  Linder bade them a cheerful farewell, and went swinging down the road.

  ‘Come on, darling, put your best foot forward,’ urged Wyatt, whose leg was beginning to ache for the first time since their arrival.

  They toiled on up the hill, and sure enough there was a very small cottage standing well back from the road just round the next bend. They stopped to admire the neatly kept front garden, then Wyatt pushed open the gate and went up the stone-flagged path. He knocked at the front door and waited for some time.

  Sally followed him up the path, stooping to smell the old-fashioned stocks and wallflowers.

  ‘The old boy doesn’t seem to be in after all,’ said Wyatt, knocking again.

  ‘He may have gone down to the shore,’ said Sally.

  ‘It can’t be more than a few minutes since Linder was here.’

  Wyatt knocked again and stood listening intently. He imagined he heard a slight movement inside, but could not be certain.

  ‘What are we going to do now?’ asked Sally.

  ‘I don’t know. I should like to have seen Tyson before we leave Shorecombe and—’

  The unmistakable sound of a revolver shot cut him short.

  ‘Lionel!’ Sally clutched his arm.

  ‘It came from inside the cottage – the room at the back,’ he said quickly. ‘You stay here, Sally. Stand clear of the door, just in case …’

  Sally moved along to the corner of the cottage, and Wyatt vanished round the back.

  He was not very surprised to find the back door half-open. He stopped for a moment and listened, but all seemed to be quiet inside. He moved up to the door and slowly put his head inside.

  The back room was a kitchen-scullery, with a sink under the window. A door opposite led into the front room; this was closed, but across the table near it lay the shirt-sleeved figure of an elderly man. Wyatt walked over to the table and saw that the man had been shot through the forehead. Wyatt picked up his left hand, felt the pulse, then let it fall again. The man was dead.

  A revolver lay on the floor, and Wyatt carefully picked it up with his handkerchief. One cartridge had been fired. He replaced the weapon in the exact spot where he had found it, and looked round the room. There was nothing that looked in any way unusual, and he went through into the front room and opened the door, having carefully closed the connecting door behind him.

  ‘You’d better come inside, Sally,’ he called, and she came running along the front of the cottage.

  ‘What was it?’ she demanded rather breathlessly.

  ‘It’s a nasty business,’ he replied tersely. ‘I’m afraid Tyson’s dead.’

  ‘Dead!’ repeated Sally wonderingly, gazing at the scullery door.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t see him,’ said Wyatt, interpreting her thoughts. ‘He isn’t exactly a pleasant spectacle.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He’s been shot through the head; he must have committed suicide.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Everything seems to point to it.’

  ‘Was that the shot we heard?’

  ‘Yes. And if it was fired by anyone but Tyson, then he made a very quick getaway.’

  ‘He might still be in the house,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Yes … there’s just a chance. Wait here, Sally …’

  He opened a third door beside the fireplace, which led upstairs, and mounted the narrow stairs as silently as possible. But both the bedrooms were empty, and showed no trace of an intruder. He came down slowly, to find Sally sitting on a rocking-chair and staring at the scullery door.

  ‘Is he in there?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, he’s sprawled across the table. Don’t go in, darling; it’ll only upset you.’

  ‘You’re quite sure it’s suicide?’ she insisted in a pensive tone.

  Wyatt walked slowly to the window.

  ‘You’re thinking of Linder?’

  ‘I can’t help it. We’d only just met him; I’ll admit he didn’t look like a man who’s out to commit a murder, but one can’t be absolutely certain …’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘But we heard the shot, Sally, as we stood at the front door. There’s no one else in the place, and no one came out.’

  ‘All right, darling,’ she agreed, with a little sigh. ‘It must be suicide. We’d better get the police, hadn’t we?’

  ‘I’d just like to take a last look round in there. You stay where you are; I won’t be five minutes.’

  He went into the scullery and closed the door.

  After methodically examining the room for some minutes his eye suddenly caught a scrap of white paper which was partly hidden by the dead man’s sleeve. Wyatt moved the arm slightly so that he could see the paper. The red ink was a trifle smudged, but he had no difficulty in deciphering the sentence:

  ‘With the compliments of Mr Rossiter.’

  CHAPTER IV

  Sir Donald Angus is Perturbed

  The subsequent police inquiries detained Wyatt and Sally until the late afternoon, so they were unable to catch the 3.45 from Whitby. Wyatt stayed to see that fingerprint impressions were taken in every likely place inside the cottage, and arranged for the photos to be sent to Scotland Yard by express delivery. The local police apparently had no suspicion of foul play, particularly when the only prints on the revolver proved to be Tyson’s own.

  Having caught a train in the early evening, it was just after one a.m. when Wyatt and Sally arrived at Paddington. Luckily they were able to get a room at the station hotel and enjoyed the seven hours’ sound sleep they badly needed. Sally refused to accompany her husband to the Yard that morning, pleading that she had some shopping to do, and would meet him for lunch.

  When Wyatt arrived at the Yard soon after ten that morning, Perivale and Lathom were busily engaged in reading the reports and examining the fingerprint impressions which had already reached them from Shorecombe. Perivale was looking more worried than ever, but Wyatt could see from the gleam in Lathom’s eye that he had already made up his mind about the Tyson affair.

  After Wyatt had given them a brief account of his trip to Shorecombe, Perivale paced up and
down, then went over to the window and gazed unseeingly at the tugs ploughing past on the Thames below him.

  ‘I’m damned if I can make head or tail of it, Wyatt,’ he said at last.

  ‘I don’t understand it myself,’ declared Wyatt quite equably. ‘Maybe the inspector here has a theory.’ He could see that Lathom was bursting to expound.

  The inspector swung round towards his chief.

  ‘If you’ll forgive my saying so, Sir James, there’s quite obviously only one possible explanation,’ he announced. The Assistant Commissioner’s bushy eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Let’s have it, Lathom.’

  ‘When Mr and Mrs Wyatt went to the cottage, they saw no one leave after the shot had been fired.’

  ‘Of course no one escaped,’ snapped Perivale.

  ‘Exactly, sir. No one escaped for the very good reason that there was no one in the cottage except Tyson.’

  ‘In other words, you’re telling us that Tyson committed suicide.’

  ‘Of course,’ nodded Lathom confidently. Perivale was more irritated than ever.

  ‘My dear Inspector, I’m quite ready to believe that Tyson committed suicide; in fact, so far as I can see, there is no other possible explanation, but the point is, if Tyson killed himself, who put that note on the table? Who wrote the note? And why, in God’s name, did they take the trouble to write it immediately after Tyson died?’

  ‘Well, there’s only one possible explanation,’ began Lathom once more in his somewhat superior tone. ‘Tyson made up his mind to commit suicide, so he wrote the note first and then—’

  ‘You sit there and try to tell me he wrote that note himself!’ exclaimed Perivale, obviously quite staggered at the idea.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ maintained Lathom doggedly.

  ‘But, look here, Lathom,’ said Perivale, obviously trying to be patient. ‘We’ve proved quite conclusively that the note was written by the same person who sent notes to Maurice Knight and—’

  ‘Just a minute,’ put in Wyatt, who was beginning to see daylight. ‘You think, Inspector, that Tyson not only wrote that particular note, but that he wrote the others as well.’