These Names Make Clues

by E. C. R. Lorac

  Lethem smiled. “It’s not an agent’s business to tell secrets out of school,” he parried. “If any one asks me who Miss Jane Seymour really is, of course, I shan’t know.”

  She looked at him sadly. “I hate lemons.”

  He laughed and looked again at the MS. sheets.

  “Why do you want to know? Have you been reading rumours in the press?”

  “Oh, no—but I’m just inquisitive. It annoys me when people tell you things with an air of authority and you can’t decide if they’re making it up or not. Mr. Gardien lived in Australia until four or five years ago, didn’t he?”

  “Did he? You seem to know more about him than I do. About your own MS. Shall I hand it on to a reader, or would you prefer—?”

  “I think I’ll leave it with you, and call again to see Mr. Elliott, if I may,” she put in, before he had finished his sentence. “You think that there’s no chance of my seeing him to-day?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “All right. I’ll ring up again to-morrow.”

  “Thanks. That would be best. I hope Mr. Grand is well.”

  “Quite well, thanks.” She smiled at him again. “And thank you very much for all the trouble you have taken.”

  Jenkins had done some quick thinking towards the close of this interview. He decided that this was Macdonald’s affair. The chief inspector would manage Miss “Seymour” in his own way. Jenkins let Lethem show her out. The only inquiry he made was:

  “Who is this Simon Grand she mentioned?”

  “Search me,” retorted Lethem. “I don’t know. Never seen him. There’s his last thriller on the table if you’d like to see it.”

  “Thriller? Gardien again?”

  “I tell you I don’t know,” said Lethem, his face puckered up irritably. “And, what’s more, I don’t know any one who does.”

  “Lots of things you don’t know,” said Jenkins genially as he stretched for the telephone.

  X

  Mrs. Louise Etherton, the gifted author of Patience on a Monument (first impression sold out on day of publication), had recently taken one of the new service flats in Belinda Place, Hampstead. The block was advertised as “designed by women, run by women, for women only.” In accommodation and service, Belinda Place was the last thing in comfort and modernity for those professional women whose purses were sufficiently elastic to meet the charges of the establishment. Sound-proof floors and walls, double windows with a system of scientific ventilation, heating adjustable to all tastes, and the most luxurious of modern furnishing and plumbing ensured peace and comfort for all, while the restaurant and service department claimed an excellence and expertise which no man’s club could outdo. “Belinda” specialised in all directions, including the choice of its tenants or members, for election was necessary before the committee granted a lease in that exclusive establishment. Miss Rachel Dainton, whose energy and initiative had brought “Belinda” into being, had often said:

  “I’m sick to death of all the everlasting aspersions on the ‘bun and cocoa’ woman. It’s been said again and again that we have no idea how to live comfortably. We’ve no palates, no sense of food, no notions of real comfort and so ad infinitum. Well, we’re tired of all that. We’re going to make a start with an establishment that will show what real comfort means.”

  Mrs. Etherton, who, since she had been left with no means of support save her own abilities, had met plenty of the “bun and cocoa” school. She had “pigged it” (to use her own expression) in lodgings, wilted in women’s hostels, wearied of boarding schools, boarding houses, and women’s clubs of the “bed and breakfast from thirty shillings weekly inclusive of bath” variety. In short, Mrs. Etherton realised to the full the unique value of “Belinda’s”—“when your royalties ran to it.” She was old enough to disregard scoffs at “pusseries” and “henneries,” experienced enough to know that a man in the house does not always spell complete bliss for the wife who darns his socks, and in the autumn of a strenuous life she regarded “peace, comfort and cuisine guaranteed by women for women” as the desirable factors in life.

  On the morning after Graham Coombe’s treasure hunt, having breakfasted in bed and finished The Times cross-word with her cigarette, Mrs. Etherton was about to settle down to the great scene of Penelope in Paradise when Miss Coombe’s telephone call came through. Having replaced the receiver, Mrs. Etherton looked down at the manuscript of Penelope and sighed. It was really very difficult to concentrate on tickling the palates of her public while this Gardien business was at the back of her mind. “What a nuisance men are,” she complained to herself and put her writing materials away. “I expect I’d better leave it alone, but I should like to make sure. I don’t suppose she’ll bless me, but I’ll risk it. What a small world it is!”

  The decision which Mrs. Etherton had just made concerned one of her fellow-guests at the Coombes’ party. Priding herself on her independence of mind, Mrs. Etherton had so far kept aloof from her fellow-residents at Belinda Place. Without being prejudiced against her own sex (her choice of a dwelling was assurance of that), she had yet had too much experience of women’s society to wish to form friendships which might develop into the tiresome familiarities of communal life, and she had avoided even passing the time of day with the residents whom she saw in the restaurant and in the lifts and entrance lobby of her new home. Nevertheless, when she had recognised Miss Rees last night as a resident at “Belinda,” Mrs. Etherton had been interested. There was something familiar about the other writer’s square face and intelligent grey eyes which had made Mrs. Etherton say to herself:

  “Now, where have I met you before?”

  Without being inquisitive or pushing, Mrs. Etherton had determined to call on Miss Rees and have a talk with her. Taking up the service telephone, she got through to the office and inquired for the number of Miss Rees’ flat. “7B, top floor,” was the prompt and businesslike answer of a secretary who prided herself on not wasting words.

  Putting on her hat and coat, Mrs. Etherton went up in the lift and rang at the door of 7B, which was opened to her by one of the maids on the service staff of Belinda.

  “Would you ask Miss Rees if she could see me for a moment, Lily?” said Mrs. Etherton, who was on excellent terms with the service employees.

  “Miss Rees has just gone out to the post, ma’am. She won’t be more than a few minutes. Would you care to come in and wait for her?”

  “Yes, I think I will,” replied Mrs. Etherton. “It seems silly to go downstairs again if you think Miss Rees will be back in a minute or two. How is your indigestion, Lily?”

  “Much better, thank you, ma’am. Those pills you gave me did me a lot of good.”

  “I’m so glad,” said Mrs. Etherton, as she was shown into the sitting-room. She reflected that it was an excellent thing to be on good terms with the servants. The housemaid, Lily, would have been considerably surprised, however, if she could have seen the behaviour of the much-respected Mrs. Etherton when she was left alone in another woman’s sitting-room. After a glance round which indicated nothing more than general curiosity, Mrs. Etherton crossed over to the bureau, let down the flap, and looked quickly through the papers she found in it. She then went to the typewriter—a portable which stood on a table by the window—and inspected the sheets of typescript which lay beside it. Next she drew out one or two books from the bookcase and considered the names on the fly-leaves. After that she opened the door of the room and called to the maid. There was no answer. Lily had finished her work and gone on to the next tenant on her list.

  Leaving the sitting-room door open, Mrs. Etherton next opened the door of the bedroom, which had communicating doors with both sitting-room and entrance lounge, in the manner of all the “Belinda” flats, and looked round quickly. She opened one or two drawers, without touching anything, until she came on one which contained a black evening bag. Her hand was just closing on this when she heard the lift doors open on the landing outside, and she then hastil
y shut the drawer and retreated to the sitting-room, closing the bedroom door after her.

  When Miss Rees came into the sitting-room she gave a start of surprise when she saw Mrs. Etherton sitting by the window.

  “I do hope you’ll excuse this intrusion,” said Mrs. Etherton pleasantly. “I came up to see you just a moment ago, and the maid, Lily, who knows me very well, suggested that I should wait, as she knew you were just coming in again.” Seeing the astonishment on the other woman’s face, she added, “I am Mrs. Etherton. We met last night at Graham Coombe’s.”

  “Oh, of course! How stupid of me not to recognise you; but a hat makes such a difference,” said Miss Rees. “Do sit down.”

  “Thanks so much. I came to return a handkerchief of yours which I foolishly picked up and brought away with me yesterday evening. It’s rather a beautiful one, and I thought you would like to have it back. Although I have seen you in this building once or twice, I hadn’t realised that we were fellow-writers until last evening. Belinda is such a comfort.”

  “Yes. Thank you so much. It’s very kind of you,” said Miss Rees, as she took the lace handkerchief proffered. “These flats are lovely, but I don’t live here. I couldn’t afford it. Miss Duncan has lent me her flat for a week or two.”

  “Belinda is admirably run,” said Mrs. Etherton in her deep sensible voice. “Easily the best thing in the way of solving the domestic problem that I have met. I was sorry that I missed you last night. I was going to ask you if I could give you a lift back.”

  “Very kind of you. I am afraid that I left as soon as I possibly could,” said Miss Rees. “It was all so upsetting. A dreadful thing for the Coombes. I was so very sorry for them.”

  “Yes. Indeed. Most upsetting,” said Mrs. Etherton. “Upsetting for everybody.”

  She had been studying the face of her companion thoughtfully, and she added abruptly, “You don’t remember me—before last night?” And the other stared back.

  “I’m so sorry. Have we met before? I’m so bad over faces.”

  “It was a long time ago, just after the war. You were only a young thing then, and I had black hair, not white. We were only together for a term. It was in 1920. That place near Reading. I did a temporary job when some one had broken down.”

  “Good gracious!” Miss Rees gazed wide-eyed at her visitor. “Mrs. Etherton—of course. But how wonderful of you to have remembered me after all that time!”

  “You were very kind to me,” said the older woman, and then broke out into her deep, pleasant laugh.

  “My dear, this is really very comic! The young people of to-day call detective stories ‘escape literature!’ All stories are a means of escape—from the trivial round and common task. The little typists and tired suburban mothers who write to me about my unspeakable books are kind enough to say that they take them out of themselves. They’ve taken me out of a lot of tiresomeness and keep me in ‘Belinda.’ I’m grateful to them.”

  Miss Rees looked rather shocked. “But why unspeakable? I know you have a tremendous circulation. I’ve read your reviews.”

  “But not my books, I hope,” chuckled the older woman. “I’ve no illusions about them. When I first began writing I was very high-minded and very poor. After a few disappointments I resolved to put my aspirations behind me. I read all the most popular rubbish I could get hold of. I analysed it and got the essentials. Then I began to write a book to the recipe I’d synthesised. Emotions and wish-fulfilments earn me my living, and it’s not nearly so toilsome as teaching the young, and much more profitable. There you have my motive. I’m old enough to like peace and quietness. No more aspirations and agitations for me.”

  Miss Rees smiled. “You’re very frank, but I agree with you in your conclusion about liking peace and quietness. I’m beginning to remember you now. You’d been through a bad time, hadn’t you?—losing your husband and having to start work anew.”

  “Yes, I’d been through a bad time all right. I did lose my husband—not in the normal sense, though; he just walked out and left me. It was all very embittering at the time, but I lived through it. One can live through anything if one’s tough enough.” Mrs. Etherton’s deep voice was quite calm and reflective, and she smiled at the expression on the other woman’s face. “You’re wondering why on earth I’m here, calling on specious pretences to make abrupt confidences so early in the morning. The sight of your face—although you’ve changed a lot—reminds me of those old troubled times. I’m not usually so intrusive. I’ll own up to my real reasons for coming to see you. I wanted to make certain that I had been right in placing you, and to find out if you had recognised me. The circumstances of last night seemed to make it desirable to get that clear.”

  “I’m very pleased to see you again,” said Miss Rees, “but I don’t quite follow your last argument. Forgive me if I’m stupid, but I was always a slow thinker.”

  “Were you? It’s not reflected in your books, then,” replied Mrs. Etherton. “I mean this: The fact that that Scotland Yard man was on the warpath so promptly and politely last night indicated that he thought there was something fishy about Andrew Gardien’s death. You, as a detective writer, probably know much more about police procedure than I do, but if the C.I.D. think they’ve spotted a murder, they’ll get busy investigating the lives of all those who were in the house last night. It’s a tiresome thought. Personally I consider I’ve the right to my own reticences, but I like to know where I am. If you had recognised me, I thought it probable that you might tell the chief inspector so. Quite frankly, I’d rather you didn’t. Nothing like putting things plainly. I’m prepared to trust you completely, you see.”

  Miss Rees turned very pink, and her forehead wrinkled up, showing a deep crease between her eyes. She sat with her chin in her hands, and it was some time before she answered.

  “This is all very bewildering,” she said slowly. “I think it’s better to leave your statement exactly as it stands, and not to ask for explanations. You want me to avoid telling the police that we’ve met before. I’m quite willing to agree to that.”

  “Good!” said Mrs. Etherton heartily. “That’s all I wanted. One thing about talking to a woman whom you’ve known when life was difficult is that you can trust her not to let you down. Rather oblique, but in spite of your assertions about slow thinking, I’m certain you’re very quick in the uptake. I’m so glad I came and had a talk with you. Miss Coombe rang me up a short while ago and asked me to go and call on her this afternoon. She has got some idea of having a conference between the women who were at her party last night. Of course, she’s a great feminist—a believer in the superiority of women’s brains to men’s.”

  “Is she?” said Miss Rees. “I think arguments on that score are so futile, but I liked Miss Coombe herself very much. She rang me up also, and I agreed to go, though really I would much rather have refused. I’m no good at discussing things, I always see the other person’s point of view and either capitulate or lose the thread of my own argument. I like working out a line of thought, when I have the leisure to develop my own point of view. Besides, I think it’s rather feeble, as well as distressing, to go over the same ground again. Surely we all discussed it enough last night?”

  “Possibly Susan Coombe has come upon further evidence and wants to check it up with those who were present,” said Mrs. Etherton. “I’m quite prepared to be intelligently interested in hearing what’s said, though I haven’t anything to add on my own account. I was upstairs when the lights went out, so I can’t be helpful. It was you and Miss Delareign who produced the only evidence of any importance. If Gardien were murdered, it stands to reason that it was the unauthorised stranger who did it. Men don’t sneak uninvited into any one’s house unless they’re out to do something they’ve no business to do.”

  Miss Rees sighed. “I hate the whole subject, Mrs. Etherton. I wish most sincerely that I’d never seen the grey-haired man. It’s only going to cause me a lot of trouble if this mystery does develop into a murde
r case. If Miss Delareign held her tongue about it, I should have felt disposed to do likewise.”

  “That would have been a great mistake,” said Mrs. Etherton firmly. “I didn’t care for the Delareign woman myself, she is much too effusive, and her books are too atmospheric for words—all tears and dither—but I’m very glad she produced that piece of evidence, and that you could reinforce it. I know I’m being an awful nuisance to you, bothering you over all this, but I do wish you’d describe that man to me again. I have very good reasons for asking you.”

  Seeing the distressed look on her companion’s face, Mrs. Etherton added, “Really, if any one overheard this conversation they would be justified in believing that I was the culprit. I wasn’t. To the best of my belief I never saw Mr. Gardien before last night.”

  “Such a thought never entered my head, Mrs. Etherton,” interposed Miss Rees decidedly. “My own opinion is that Mr. Gardien died of heart failure after some sort of shock. If the man I saw was a burglar, it seems not unlikely that he engineered the fuse in order to be able to carry out his plans in the confusion caused by the darkness and something happened during that time which gave Mr. Gardien a fright—something colliding with him perhaps, or even knocking him down.”

  “Quite reasonable,” agreed Mrs. Etherton. “You remember that that was what Miss Delareign said happened to her. She collided with some one in the dark.”

  There was a second’s tense silence, and then Mrs. Etherton went on.

  “It’s better to be quite practical over this. The Scotland Yard man—Isaak Walton was really a brilliant nom de guerre for him—didn’t make all those inquiries without good reason. He suspected something, and finally he suspected everybody. Miss Delareign was very near the centre of activities, so to speak. She was very agitated and admitted to colliding with somebody in the dark. Young Strafford was downstairs too, and also appeared to have been in the wars. Miss Coombe was in the basement—alone. I was upstairs, alone. You were resting on that little Empire couch on the second floor landing—at least you were when I went upstairs a couple of minutes before the fuse.”