‘I see …’
Knight bent down and picked up the dead man’s hand, held it for a moment, then let it fall to the floor with a soft thud.
‘What are you suggesting?’ said Sally quietly.
Maurice Knight shrugged.
‘It’s obvious that this man has been murdered,’ he said, indicating the red marks on the neck of the corpse with his stick.
‘And you think we murdered him?’ queried Wyatt. ‘Is that it, Knight?’
‘I’m entitled to my opinion.’
Sally suppressed an exclamation, but Wyatt only smiled.
‘Don’t you think we owe each other an explanation, Knight?’ he demanded pleasantly.
‘I shall be very pleased to listen to yours, Mr Wyatt,’ said Knight in a non-committal tone.
‘All right, I came here tonight for two reasons. The first was to follow up a visit made by a man named Sir Donald Angus – perhaps you haven’t heard of him …’
‘Of course I’ve heard of him,’ said Knight, taking a folded evening paper from his coat pocket and opening it out. ‘Perhaps you haven’t seen the last editions of the evening paper, Mr Wyatt?’
He indicated a banner headline across the front page.
‘They’ve got the whole story!’ whispered Sally, taking a quick glance at the left-hand column.
Wyatt’s eye roved rapidly over the heavy type … ‘We learn from a reliable source that Miss Lauren Beaumont, a personal friend of Sir Donald Angus, the Scottish millionaire shipowner, was abducted by the notorious “Mr Rossiter”, and was today returned to the hotel where she had been staying with him, after Sir Donald had paid over the sum of £15,000 for her release …’
‘How did they get it, Lionel?’ breathed Sally. ‘Sir Donald will be frantic – it’s just what he wanted to avoid.’
‘Did Angus really pay all that money?’ inquired Knight curiously.
Wyatt hesitated a moment, then said:
‘Yes, he came here this afternoon at four o’clock, and brought the money with him in a suitcase.’
‘You don’t mean he gave it to this man Reed?’ demanded Knight incredulously.
‘That’s the plain truth, Mr Knight.’
Knight perched on the corner of the grimy kitchen table.
‘So that’s why you came here, is it?’
‘That’s one very good reason,’ said Wyatt. ‘Now perhaps you’ll give me one good reason why you came.’
Knight smiled a trifle ruefully.
‘I’m sorry to have doubted you, Mr Wyatt. Of course, I’m just a blundering amateur – I make a hell of a lot of silly mistakes. But I do hit upon something occasionally.’
‘You certainly do!’ agreed Wyatt a trifle grimly.
‘Did you know anything about this man Reed?’ asked Sally. Knight shook his head.
‘Not till this morning. I was going through some papers that belonged to Barbara, and I came across his name and address. I asked her father about him, and he couldn’t throw any light on the matter, though he said he thought Barbara came down to this part of the world several times.’
‘Didn’t you know about that?’
‘No, it came as a complete surprise to me. I can’t think why on earth she should visit such a dump like this.’
‘If we could find that out, it might be quite a help,’ mused Wyatt. ‘She never mentioned the name “Reed” to you?’
‘Never,’ replied Knight positively. Then, after a pause, he went on: ‘Have you any idea who killed him?’
‘Not the slightest,’ replied Wyatt, ‘though there must be some connection with “Mr Rossiter” …’
‘Lionel, you don’t think Reed could have been “Mr Rossiter”, and that Angus didn’t hand over the money after all?’ said Sally urgently. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any sign of that suitcase …’
‘You mean that Angus simply killed Reed and rescued his girl friend?’ put in Knight, smiling encouragingly at Sally. ‘Then he came back and pitched a yarn—’
‘Just a minute,’ interrupted Wyatt. ‘I’m not absolutely certain, of course, that Sir Donald didn’t murder Reed, but I am quite certain that he didn’t, strictly speaking, rescue the girl. So I don’t think there’s much point in pursuing that theory any further.’ He turned to Knight and asked: ‘What did you expect to find here, Knight?’
Knight shook his head.
‘I don’t quite know … some sort of clue to Barbara’s murderer. You see, I’m so much in the dark, I’m glad to clutch at any straw … I’ve nothing much else to do, and it helps to keep me sane. By the way, have you sent for the police?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Wyatt, picking up the dead man’s coat. He handed it to Sally.
‘What do you make of that?’ he asked. ‘It’s some sort of perfume, I’m pretty sure – though it’s mixed with one or two other things.’
‘Yes, it’s perfume all right,’ agreed Sally. ‘Quite an expensive brand, too.’
‘I thought I could smell something, too,’ said Knight. ‘I thought perhaps it was yours, Mrs Wyatt.’
‘No, it isn’t mine,’ declared Sally positively, handing back the coat. He sniffed it again with a puzzled frown.
‘It seems familiar,’ he murmured. ‘I feel I’ve come across it before, but I can’t think where.’
Wyatt finished going through the dead man’s pockets without discovering anything of interest. Then he turned to Knight and said:
‘Have you got your car down here, Knight, or can we give you a lift?’
‘It’s all right, thanks – my car’s not far away.’
‘Righto, then, come along, Sally. This is a job for the Yard now. I arranged for a couple of plain-clothes men to be on duty at the junction of the main road, so we’ll give them the tip on our way back.’
Sally went out with Knight, and Wyatt carefully turned out the gas and closed all the doors behind him.
It appeared that Knight’s car was some distance down Coster Row, and he went off in the opposite direction towards the canal, while Sally and Wyatt walked briskly to the piece of waste ground where their own car was parked. They did not talk very much, for they were each sifting a number of theories about the murder which were churning through their minds.
After they had left the East End behind, Sally suddenly snapped her fingers with a triumphant gesture.
‘I’ve got it!’ she exclaimed.
‘Phew! You gave me quite a start,’ he grinned. ‘Now, what is it?’
‘I’ve remembered about that perfume.’
‘Well?’
‘It was Château Number Eight,’ she informed him.
‘Oh, hell,’ said her husband, ‘isn’t that just like a woman? Worrying herself stiff about a brand of perfume when there’s an unsolved murder on our hands.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Sally. ‘I’ve remembered something else. I knew I’d come across the stuff before, and now I know where it was.’
‘Ah, that’s more like it,’ nodded Wyatt, slowing the car down to a leisurely fifteen miles an hour. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s a brand specially recommended by some famous West End actress?’
‘Oh, dear, no,’ replied Sally pointedly. ‘I’m quite certain a friend of yours at Shorecombe used it.’
Wyatt sat up rather more attentively, and she went on.
‘You remember that we drove back to the inn with Doctor Fraser after the accident?’
Wyatt turned and looked at her.
‘You mean Doctor Fraser had the same perfume?’
‘I’d bet my last new hat on it,’ announced Sally with some emphasis.
‘All right,’ said Wyatt, ‘we’ll stop at the next telephone and I’ll make a few inquiries.’
They came to an empty telephone box in an alleyway between two city banks, and Wyatt stopped the car.
He got through to Doctor Fraser’s number without any delay, and she answered the telephone herself in that cool, attractive Canadian accent.
‘I�
�m so glad you telephoned, Mr Wyatt,’ she said at once, and he thought he recognized a note of relief in her tone.
‘Why, is anything the matter?’ he inquired.
‘No, no, there’s nothing wrong, but I’ve been rather worried about that telephone call, and wondering if I’m not acting unprofessionally in not going to Shadwell Basin, as the case was apparently urgent.’
‘Then you haven’t been down there?’ queried Wyatt.
‘What do you mean?’ she demanded in a puzzled voice. ‘You told me not to go until I heard from you.’
‘And you’re quite certain you followed my instructions?’
‘Absolutely. I told you I’ve been worrying whether I was doing the right thing.’ He detected a faint trace of annoyance in her tone.
After a slight pause, she asked:
‘Is anything wrong down there? Has – has the girl died or—’
‘I’ve been down to the house,’ he told her deliberately. ‘And I saw no girl.’
She caught her breath.
‘Then it was another trick!’ she exclaimed. ‘I should have gone down there in the morning and found—’
‘You might have found a dead man on the premises – your caller, Professor Reed,’ said Wyatt.
‘But – but what happened?’ she demanded eagerly.
Wyatt ignored the question.
‘Have you been out at all this evening?’
‘Not since tea. I’ve been here in my flat … with a friend of mine. He’s here now.’ Wyatt hesitated a moment, then said:
‘His name wouldn’t be Hugo Linder, by any chance?’
There was no reply, and after waiting a few moments Wyatt went on:
‘I think you’d better tell me the truth, Doctor.’
‘What if it is Mr Linder?’ she retorted with a touch of defiance. ‘He happens to be a friend of mine.’
‘This is most intriguing, Doctor Fraser,’ said Wyatt suavely. ‘You may remember that when we were at Shorecombe I asked you if you knew a man called Hugo Linder, and you denied all knowledge of such a person.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she replied. ‘I’m very sorry – it was extremely stupid of me.’
‘But why did you do it?’
She hesitated a moment, then said: ‘I’ll explain all that next time I see you, Mr Wyatt. There’s nothing terribly sinister about it.’
‘I’ll be looking forward to hearing the details,’ he assured her. ‘Oh, there’s just one other thing …’
‘Yes?’
‘Would you mind telling me what sort of perfume you use?’
‘That’s a strange question, Mr Wyatt.’
‘Believe me, I have a reason for asking, Doctor. You have no objection to telling me?’
‘Of course not. I use Château Number Eight. Why do you want to know?’
Wyatt smiled grimly.
‘Remind me to explain that next time we meet – when you tell me about Hugo Linder. Good night, Doctor.’
The door of the telephone box slammed after him, and he was crossing the road to rejoin Sally in the car when a high-powered cream saloon swung round the corner. As it passed under the light from one of the new street lamps, Wyatt recognized the driver as Hugo Linder.
Whether Linder had observed this glance of recognition, Wyatt could not be certain, but the car backed to a standstill.
Linder climbed out and came towards them with a polite ‘good evening’.
‘You’re the last person I expected to see, Mr Linder,’ ejaculated Wyatt. ‘What have you been doing in the East End?’
‘Oh, just taking a little run round,’ replied Linder evasively.
‘Not exactly a salubrious quarter for a joy ride,’ was Wyatt’s dry comment. ‘By the way, I’ve just been talking to a friend of yours. Doctor Fraser told me you were spending the evening at her flat.’ Linder looked a trifle surprised, then recovered.
‘I was there earlier on. I had to leave because I’d promised to drive a friend of yours down here.’
‘A friend of mine?’ It was Wyatt’s turn to be surprised.
‘Inspector Lathom,’ Linder cheerfully informed him. ‘He told me he had two plain-clothes men down here he wanted to see.’
‘Where is the Inspector?’ asked Sally.
‘I left him a few minutes ago. It seems the men had received a report from you about a Professor Reed being murdered, and he went along to investigate.’
‘That’s right,’ nodded Wyatt. ‘We found the body.’
‘How horrible for you, Mrs Wyatt!’ sympathized Linder. ‘It’s a dreadful shock – specially for a woman. I shall never forget the day poor Tyson and I discovered Barbara Willis. It was absolutely ghastly!’
Wyatt noticed Sally’s strained expression and abruptly changed the conversation.
‘We’d better be getting back, Sally – if Mr Linder will excuse us.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Linder, with a slight bow. ‘I promised to return to Doctor Fraser in time for a supper.’
He went off to his car, which roared on ahead of them.
‘I can’t make out how he and Lathom come to be on such friendly terms,’ said Sally, wrinkling her brow. ‘They seem to be practically living in each other’s pockets.’
‘Maybe Lathom’s up to something,’ speculated Wyatt, as he drew up with a jerk at the Ludgate Hill traffic lights.
‘I never did like—’ began Sally.
‘I know, darling – you never liked that man’s face!’ he interrupted with a grin. ‘I’m afraid it’s too late for him to do anything about it now.’
He lost no time in getting back to the flat, for he had an idea that there might be further developments before the night was out. Sally went into the kitchen to make some coffee and Wyatt was re-reading the evening paper when the telephone rang and he heard the familiar voice of Inspector Lathom.
‘I’d no idea you were on your way to Coster Row, or I’d have hung on,’ said Wyatt at once. ‘I gave your men a pretty full account of everything. Was there anything else you wanted to know?’
‘Just one or two small points,’ said the inspector. ‘In the first place, I find that Reed isn’t a registered vet, and never has been.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Wyatt. ‘I don’t suppose he’s a registered professor either!’
‘You’re about right there, Wyatt. He’s got a pretty unsavoury reputation from what I hear. By the way, how long d’you think he’d been dead before you found him?’
‘I wouldn’t like to venture an opinion,’ said Wyatt. ‘I expect the police will give you a better idea.’
‘H’m,’ grunted Lathom a trifle sceptically. ‘I suppose you’re quite sure that he was murdered. It couldn’t possibly have been suicide?’
‘What do you think yourself?’ stalled Wyatt, wondering vaguely if Lathom had hit upon some new clue. But the inspector appeared to be worried about the motive for killing Reed.
‘Surely that’s fairly obvious,’ said Wyatt.
‘Not to me it isn’t,’ replied Lathom doubtfully. ‘Perhaps you’d give me your idea.’
‘It seems to me to be a plain case of the professor trying to double-cross the gentleman who gave him his instructions, and hoping to get away with the booty himself,’ said Wyatt.
‘Yes,’ said Lathom dubiously, ‘I suppose that’s the most likely construction to put upon it. But it doesn’t necessarily follow that it’s the right one.’
‘All right,’ said Wyatt urbanely, ‘what’s your idea of the affair, Inspector?’
Lathom hesitated for a moment, then said:
‘I agree that Reed was out to double-cross Mr R., but it’s my opinion that he was murdered by another member of the organization.’
‘That’s all right if you believe in the existence of an organization. Have you found any evidence that points to it?’ asked Wyatt quickly.
‘Well, no, I can’t say I have,’ admitted Lathom with some reluctance. ‘But, hang it, man, there must be an organization! O
ne man could never cover all that ground on his own. Anyhow, we can’t argue that out now, Wyatt. I must be off.’
‘You’ll want me to give evidence at the inquest, I suppose?’
‘Oh, yes, I’ll let you know time and place when I see you tomorrow. Good night, Wyatt.’
Wyatt replaced the receiver, and turned to Sally who had been trying to follow the conversation.
‘Lathom thinks there’s an organization,’ he said, with a tiny smile.
‘And what about you?’ asked Sally.
‘I’d like a little more proof of the fact. Of course, it all depends by what one means by “organization”.’
‘What’s your idea?’ she asked.
‘Well, there’s such a thing as one man blackmailing people to do his dirty work for him. But I wouldn’t exactly describe that as an organization.’
Sally appeared to be weighing this up for a minute or two, then suddenly she said:
‘I wish we could find out how Fleet Street got hold of the Beaumont story. It’s in all the evening papers – I’ve just glanced through them.’
‘Sounds as if it came through one of the news agencies.’
‘That’s about it,’ she nodded. ‘Do you think “Mr Rossiter” himself gave them the story?’
‘It seems highly probable.’
‘But why should he do it?’
Wyatt lighted a cigarette and perched on an arm of the settee.
‘You might put it down to vanity at a quick guess,’ he said, ‘but I think it goes rather deeper than that. Three girls disappear mysteriously. Two of them are murdered. In the case of the third, her gentleman friend comes across with fifteen thousand pounds – and she is reprieved. These are the facts as they appear in the papers. Now, what do you think is going to happen when another girl mysteriously disappears and her husband, or friend, or father receives a demand from “Mr Rossiter”?’
‘I see,’ said Sally slowly. ‘You mean they’re going to remember what happened to the first two girls – and then how Lauren Beaumont was released … so they’ll think twice before they go to Scotland Yard.’
‘Exactly,’ nodded Wyatt, flicking the ash from his cigarette. ‘If a father or husband has the money that “Mr Rossiter” is asking, he’ll simply pay up and keep his mouth shut.’
‘It looks as if “Mr Rossiter” will be in clover,’ said Sally.
Design For Murder Page 12
