These Names Make Clues

by E. C. R. Lorac

  Asked if he had ever admitted a visitor for Mr. Elliott after the front doors were shut, he said that some weeks ago the former had tipped him to remain on duty until eight-thirty to admit a visitor. There was a bell at the front door which Holland would answer if he were in the building. His description of Elliott’s visitor on that occasion fitted Gardien’s appearance very well indeed. Holland agreed that it would have been possible for any one familiar with the building to have slipped in between the time that Lethem went out and the time that the doors were closed for the night.

  It was at this point in the relating of the evidence that Jenkins put his large cheerful face in at the door and said:

  “Got a moment, chief?”

  Macdonald promptly got up and followed his colleague into Elliott’s office. Here were the surgeon and the fingerprint men, and Macdonald could see from their faces that something unusual had occurred.

  “This is what you might call a signed murder,” said Jenkins. “I’ve read some of Gardien’s books, and he was a fair conjurer with his bits of string and what-nots. I often wondered if they’d work, but this one did anyway. Have you ever seen a grandfather clock in an office before, chief?”

  “No. I haven’t,” replied Macdonald, and Jenkins went on:

  “Neither have I. Have a look at the workings of this one, you’ll want a torch to see it properly.”

  Macdonald went and opened the long door of the “grandfather.” Familiar from boyhood with the mechanism of such clocks he noted at once that both weights were down and the bob of the pendulum unusually high. Turning the beam of his torch up into the works behind the clock face, he saw that a small pistol was fixed among the mechanism and that a cord was wound round the circumference of one of the big wheels. Jenkins fairly chuckled with glee to himself.

  “I haven’t figured out how the shooting was done, but I can see this. If that pistol was lying on the ground when the works of that clock started and a piece of cord attached to the pistol had its other end adjusted over that wheel, then as the wheel revolved and wound up the string, the pistol would be drawn along the floor and up into the case through the space at the bottom—(the bottom panel having been removed as you can see)—and finally have come to rest where it is. That good enough?”

  “That part of it’s all right,” said Macdonald. “Just a few tricks to make grandfather revolve twelve hours by the clock in twelve minutes and the pistol would go on moving—at the end of a string. Murder by Andrew Gardien, including his own, signed proof copies.”

  “Talk about tricks, I’ve never seen one to compare with that,” said Jenkins, but Macdonald was looking puzzled.

  “Tricks—” he murmured. “I suppose that was Gardien who died last night. Coombe was the only person who knew him by sight, and the Delareign lady, and she’s said to be short sighted.”

  “By gum!” said Jenkins, as the idea permeated. “By Gum! That opens out avenues so to speak.”

  Macdonald looked again at the workings of the “grandfather,” and then gave a sound very like a chuckle.

  “A battle of wits, as Coombe said. It’s time we found out who’s who in this game.”

  VIII

  Macdonald, when he snatched a few minutes for a belated mid-day meal in the course of his investigation of the double problem of Gardien and Elliott’s death, felt that he had collected so much curious evidence that he would have been glad of a few hours in which to do some concentrated thinking. The difficulty of a murder case was that the trail had to be followed while it was fresh, and the detective engaged on it had little leisure to ponder while he was hot foot after essential facts.

  The surgeon’s report on Elliott’s death stated that the agent had been killed by a shot fired at close quarters, with the barrel of the pistol almost touching the temple. The shot might or might not have been self inflicted, and the bullet found in the dead man’s head was fired from a pistol of the same small calibre as that of the weapon found in the grandfather clock.

  Since this was an American pistol of the “mass production” school the experts who submitted bullet and weapon to the “comparison microscope” test were chary of giving a decision as to whether the bullet must have been fired from that weapon and none other. It was different, they told Macdonald (who knew it already), in the case of a Webley or pistol of similar excellence, in which the breech markings were identifiable. In this case only a probability could be declared, not a certainty.

  The pistol found in the clock was without fingerprints of any kinds, but the tumbler which Jenkins had picked up on the floor gave prints of Gardien’s fingers. Another tumbler was found in Elliott’s cloak-room which had been wiped free of prints. All the polished surfaces in the office where the body was found had been carefully wiped also. The obvious deduction from this was that Gardien, having planned a murder according to his own formula had carefully removed all traces of his visit, but had failed to see the tumbler which had rolled out of sight under the table.

  “It’s just like the chap’s own stories,” repeated Jenkins, “seems idiotic at first, so that one feels superior, but the end is never idiotic. It’s always damned clever, and you realise he was smarter than yourself.”

  “It looks as though he hadn’t finished this one, then,” replied Macdonald, “unless we’re too dense to see the ending. Elliott was shot sitting in that chair, so far as you and the surgeons can see. He hadn’t been moved. Well, where’s the booby trap that held the pistol? There isn’t a thing which suggests one. If some one came and cleared away the booby trap, why didn’t they take the gun, too, or else leave it beside the body to suggest suicide?”

  “In other words, some one with a mind less astute than Gardien’s committed a crime and left his signature on it,” said Jenkins, “and then walked out, went along to Coombe’s and killed Gardien too.”

  Inquiry from Mr. Lethem elicited the fact that the grandfather clock had belonged to Mr. Gardien. It had only been in Elliott’s office for a week, and was being kept there until such time as Mr. Gardien could find room for it. Corroboration of this statement was unobtainable, (in so far as Gardien’s ownership was concerned) Elliott having merely mentioned it to his secretary—as he had mentioned Gardien’s expected visit the previous evening.

  One other interesting discovery was made. In Elliott’s cloak-room an enamel basin was found in which were the charred remains of burnt papers. A considerable amount of letters or other documents must have been burnt, and the resulting ashes afterwards pulverised. So thoroughly had they been ground down that nothing remained but pulverised ashes. Lethem was able to throw no light on this affair. Not being acquainted with Elliott’s private papers he could not tell what was missing from his desk. In the cloak-room was also found Elliott’s lounge suit and the other clothes from which he had changed into the evening suit which he wore at the time of his death. “The time” of his death was another knotty point. Twelve hours was given as the probable interval that had elapsed between Elliott’s death and the time when the surgeon had examined his body—thus pointing to ten p.m. The heat of the room made it difficult to be more precise over the point. If the electric fire had been burning all night, thus maintaining the temperature of the body and deferring the onset of rigor, death might have occurred fourteen or fifteen hours previous to examination.

  “Can you tell me if the temperature of the room was constant, more or less, all night?” inquired the surgeon, to which Macdonald could only reply that he assumed the fire had been burning all night, but obviously couldn’t be certain. On the other hand, if the fire had been lighted later, death might not have occurred much before midnight.

  Once the body had been removed and the photographers and fingerprint men had done their work, Macdonald sent for one of the solicitors attached to the C.I.D., and set him to examine the mass of papers and files in Elliott’s office, a job, which in combination with the ledgers, promised many hours, if not days of work. Lethem was kept on the premises to assist when he was ne
eded, and Macdonald and Jenkins were then free to concentrate on investigating the lives of the two men whose deaths seemed so oddly connected, and to discover some factor which could account for both.

  Lethem’s suggestion that Gardien had been staying at the Savoy Hotel was promptly disproved. The Savoy knew nothing of that author. While some of his men were occupied in telephoning to all the London hotels, Macdonald went to see the manager of the Strand and Counties Banks where Elliott had his account and had a stroke of luck immediately in finding that Gardien had banked at the same branch, having been introduced there by Elliott. The manager was unable to give any address of Gardien’s save that of the agent himself, but one of the clerks who knew Gardien by sight was more helpful. On several occasions he had seen Gardien entering or leaving a block of chambers in Martlet Street, Piccadilly, near to the famous “White Jade” restaurant. Macdonald immensely relieved at having one problem on the way to solution, promptly asked the clerk if he could identify Gardien unquestionably. The young man (named James Harris) was certain on this point, and he was dispatched to the mortuary. The bank manager having expressed his very proper consternation, at the news of Elliott’s and Gardien’s deaths, undertook to seek authority to prepare a statement of their accounts for the Yard auditors to inspect.

  The manager was a suave but colourless man, so far as his character was concerned, and seemed to Macdonald far more able in the realm of ledgers, stocks and shares, and pure mathematics than in the observation of human beings. Perhaps it was professional custom and exactitude which made his account of his two dead clients so meagre, but Macdonald left him to obtain his authority from the board and hasten westwards to Regency Chambers, Martlet Street, in the hope of coming on some information concerning the life and habits of an author who eschewed publicity.

  Regency Chambers was a small block, the ground floor of which was tenanted by an Estate Agent. A side door led to a staircase and small lift (automatic) and a plate over a bell-push indicated “porter.” Ringing this, Macdonald asked the man who appeared in answer to his summons for Mr. Andrew Gardien.

  “Not at home just at present, sir. Can I take a message?”

  Macdonald showed his warrant card. “Is there a manager here?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. ’Obbs. Top floor. I’ll take you up. Nothing wrong, I ’ope.”

  “Mr. Gardien met with an accident last night. Have you any idea what time he left here?”

  “Just after seven o’clock, sir, on ’is way out to dine. Told me ’e ’oped to come back rolling—in money, that is, sir. Treasure ’unting, ’e said ’e was. Street accident, sir?”

  “Heart attack,” replied Macdonald.

  “Ah, ’e was troubled that way,” said the porter as the lift came to rest.

  “Mr. ’Obbs”—Julian Barton-Hobbs was his full name—turned out to be a bit of a character. “Manager” was a misnomer for him. He was in reality the lessee of the house, occupying the top floor himself, and letting out the sets of “gentlemen’s chambers” below at a considerable profit. In the course of conversation, Mr. Barton-Hobbs told Macdonald that he had always lived in the west end, but a contracting income had made it impossible for him to pay the rents required by the “sharks of landlords” in Mayfair. With a combination of shrewdness and optimism he had decided to turn landlord himself, taken a lease of Regency Chambers as a final speculation, and contrived to let his premises in small units to such advantage that he was now in the happy position of living rent-free.

  A man of forty-five, with the clipped accent of the huntin’ and fishin’ sportsman, Barton-Hobbs had an unexpected business and administrative sense of a domestic kind. Some of his chambers were let furnished, with service provided, and it was in one of these pieds à terre that Gardien had been living for the past two months.

  “I knew the fella’s name as a thriller writer, of course, and he paid his rent in advance. Good enough for me,” said Barton-Hobbs, studying Macdonald through a monocle. “What’s he done? Glad he didn’t do it here, whatever it was.”

  Hearing that Mr. Gardien had died, Barton-Hobbs murmured, “Saved me a spot of trouble by dying somewhere else, what? Want me to identify him?”

  Of information concerning the writer, Mr. Barton-Hobbs could provide nothing. “Fella paid his rent and didn’t give me any trouble. Not what I’d call a pukka sahib. Couldn’t stand his ties, and he bought his boots ready-made. Woolworth’s, from the look of ’em. Relatives? Lord alone knows. I’m not his aunt, you know. Where do I bung his stuff to? I could let that set again to-morrow.”

  “Presumably his belongings and private papers will supply us with information about his next of kin,” said Macdonald. “This is the key-ring from his pocket. I expect one of the Yale latch keys is that of his apartment downstairs.”

  Barton-Hobbs glanced at the keys.

  “That’s about it,” he said. “The one with the triangular end is the street-door key, the other’s for his own oak. Like me to help you?”

  He stood up, wrapping himself in the folds of his superb and flaming silk dressing-gown.

  “Wish I’d taken to writin’,” he observed. “The chap must have been rollin’. Always feedin’ at Oddy’s and the Ritz and that. If a fella with a face and a voice like that could boil up plots and sell ’em for all that, I reckon it’s easy money.”

  “Mr. Gardien struck you as being well to do?”

  “Well, I ask you! I didn’t much cotton on to the look of him. I get eight to ten guineas as a rule for those rooms of his, with service, heatin’, valet and that. I asked him twelve—per week, y’know—and he paid up like a lamb, and I bet he’s not slept in his bed here more than one night in three. Ask Dean, that’s the man who does Gardien’s rooms. He’s about somewhere.”

  “Good. Can you arrange for Dean to be free in an hour’s time, so that I can talk to him then? I want to have a look round Mr. Gardien’s rooms first.”

  “Right. I’ll see to it. By the bye, just remembered. Gardien had a man in to vet him a month or so ago. Dr. Brace, that’s the chap. If he died of heart disease, might save an inquest, what? Don’t want any journalists rollin’ round; not good for trade.”

  “Quite,” said Macdonald. “I shall be very glad to see Dr. Brace. Thanks for your assistance.”

  “Not at all. Always believe in keepin’ on the right side of the police, what! Anything I can do and all that—” murmured Mr. Barton-Hobbs.

  Andrew Gardien’s rooms consisted of a small sitting-room, a smaller bedroom, a luxurious-looking bathroom, and a tiny kitchenette or pantry. The place was admirably furnished in ultra-modern style with furniture built to take up as little room as possible. The discreet buffs, browns and creams of the colour scheme were restful and harmonious, and there was a minimum of ornament and oddments. Mr. Barton-Hobbs had good taste, meditated Macdonald. The rooms were comfortable and pleasing to the eye, admirably kept, well heated and efficiently ventilated. Bookcases were built into the walls, and a let-down bureau was similarly fitted. It was in the bedroom that Macdonald found the only piece of furniture which looked as though it had not been part of the original scheme of furniture. This was a cabinet, in fumed oak, doing duty as a bedside table. The keys on Gardien’s ring opened the wooden cabinet and disclosed within a modern safe, which when opened disclosed stacks of neatly arranged files.

  When Macdonald first began to work through the contents of these files, he thought that he had found nothing more than a series of schemes for the author’s work, notes of plots, summaries of characters and so forth, but gradually another idea dawned on him, and by the end of an hour he was certain that he was right. There was one set of sheets, neatly pinned together and labelled Jane X, whose contents gave the wretched story of a drug addict. Certain names of restaurants and night clubs were mentioned, some in England, some in Paris, and Macdonald recognised the references so that he was able to place the story as that of a girl drug-addict who had committed suicide when put under restraint and deprived of her u
nknown source of supply. Another neatly-filed set of papers dealt with a case of cheating at cards which had been hushed up after a threatened libel action. The whole elaborate set of notes suggested one thing—the work of a systematic blackmailer. Such, then, in Macdonald’s opinion, was the activity which had enabled Gardien to live in a style to which his admitted popularity as a writer could not attain.

  The final section of the last file contained what was, from the point of view of Macdonald’s case, the most interesting find. It was a series of notes on the guests at Graham Coombe’s party and on the publisher and his sister.

  Miss Coombe, denoted by the letters S.S., was recognisable by the notes on her books and her social activities, in addition to which were a series of pencil names indicating a tour in Provence: “Avignon, Hotel des Anglais. Hyeres, Hotel d’Europe. St. Raphael, Hotel Cote d’Azur. See 27B.”

  Another note which interested Macdonald very much was “D.G.” Here, contrary to his usual practice, the writer had entered a name. Diana Geraldine. S.S. Ophelion. Agra. Simla. Delhi. See Orient list outward passage. J.L.? Both of Manchester.

  The last set of sheets referred to V. W. Woodstock, and this was a comprehensive piece of work. “Born 1911. Mallingham, Wilts. Wraden Hall School, Reading, 1922–1928. St. Elizabeth College, Oxford, 1928–1931. July and August, 1932. Skye and D.S., J.L., etc. Easter, 1933. Majorca, ditto. August, 1935, Anncey. September, Long Lough, Braemar.” There were some photographs clipped together with this sheet. One was a photograph of Valerie Woodstock, which had been published in the Mallingham Herald after she had taken her degree and been awarded a post-graduate research scholarship. “Brilliant academic career of Colonel Woodstock’s daughter. Highest university honours won by Mallingham girl,” ran the printed comment beneath. Another photograph was a snapshot taken at the seaside, by the Mediterranean, Macdonald guessed, judged by the intense lighting and the background of pines on a rocky promontory. This showed Miss Woodstock standing poised for a dive on a bathing raft, her magnificent slim body, taut and fine in its exiguous bathing suit. Beside her stood a sun-tanned young man, apparently as dark as a Moor in the strong light, one arm lifted as though to caress the girl’s shoulders. It was a beautiful photograph of two beautiful young people, and Macdonald felt a moment of rage against the dead man who had included this record of wholesome physical delight among his collection of evil reminiscences. All that was human in the chief inspector’s mind urged him to the view that if Gardien had been murdered, he had probably richly earned his fate. As he put the papers back in the workman-like files, Macdonald had to remind himself that murder could never be justified. The legal system of this country provided for redress against the blackmailer with protection to the blackmailed, and the man—or woman—who took the law into his or her own hands had to answer for the act.