“I didn’t see you,” murmured Miss Rees.
“No. I know you didn’t. Your eyes were shut,” said Mrs. Etherton. “I’ve no one to corroborate my whereabouts! There’s only my word for it that I was upstairs. Mr. Coombe was in the library, also alone, as was Mr. Vale in the dining-room. Really, the Scotland Yard man must have thought us a most fruitful field of suspicion. After all, we don’t know how Mr. Gardien was killed.”
“No. I was only saying so to myself just now,” agreed Miss Rees. “He may have been shot with one of those silencers on the pistol.”
“Silencers don’t exist except in fiction,” said Mrs Etherton unexpectedly, and Miss Rees stared. “I’m so tired of that silly business,” went on Mrs. Etherton. “After I’d read that thriller of Stokers, which depended on a silencer, I went to every gunsmiths I could find and asked for a silencer. They only laughed at me.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Miss Rees. “I’d always just taken it for granted that a silencer could be used.”
“Conceivably it might, if you could get hold of such a thing,” replied Mrs. Etherton, “but the point is that the only weapon which can be effectually silenced is an air-gun. I quote the gun-makers, and they ought to know their business. However, that’s rather beside the point here. We don’t know how Gardien was killed, but I think that we can take it that he was not shot. The point which really interests me is your evidence about the strange man who entered the telephone-room. I said just now that several of us, including Mr. and Miss Coombe, Mr. Strafford and Mr. Vale, Miss Delareign and myself, will all come under suspicion because we were alone at the time of the fuse—the time the C.I.D. man obviously considered the crucial point. It’s not a comforting thought, but the fact of your having seen a strange man in the house makes just all the difference. The probability of foul play so evidently focuses itself on the interloper.”
“I see what you mean,” said Miss Rees, “and I quite agree with you. I have been so thankful that I was not the only person who saw that man. Miss Delareign noticed him first, so it can’t be suggested that I was imagining things.”
“Exactly. Now have you considered this point carefully. Is there any possibility that the man you saw was a member of the party in disguise? Neither of the men present was grey-headed, but a wig is very easily obtainable. I must admit that such a point occurred to me.”
“It occurred to me, too,” admitted Miss Rees, “and I’ve thought it over very carefully. I’m quite certain that the man I saw was not a member of the party. Mr. Vale and Mr. Bourne are both men of unmistakable physique, the one so tall and thin, the other so powerfully built. Mr. Manton is very tall, and Mr. Coombe has a beard. The man I saw was of middle height, and though I did not see his face I could see his ears and the side of his cheek. He had no beard. I am certain he was not one of the party, and so was Miss Delareign.”
“Could you recognise him if you saw him again?”
“It’s very difficult to recognise a man’s back. I saw that he was flat-footed and walked clumsily, and that he had very close-cropped grey hair and a rather high colour.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Etherton. “Have you ever met Mardon-Elliott, the literary agent?”
“No. Never. I hardly ever meet anybody.”
“Elliott was Gardien’s agent. Mr. Coombe told me so. John Brand pointed him out to me one day—Elliott, I mean—and suggested I should go to him. I don’t believe in agents myself. It would be a most remarkable thing if it turned out that Elliott was at the Coombes’ house last night.”
“Really, the whole thing becomes more and more confusing and distressing,” said Miss Rees, but Mrs. Etherton went on:
“On occasions like this one can’t afford to get confused, and it’s a waste of energy to get distressed. I think you ought to find out about Elliott, Miss Rees. It sounds astonishingly like him, and there’s a sort of probability about it, you know, with Elliott knowing both Coombe and Gardien. Why not go and call on Elliott—make the excuse of asking him if he deals with Russian rights or something like that—and satisfy yourself on the matter.”
Miss Rees looked very thoughtful. “I don’t mind going to call on Mr. Elliott to see if your suspicions are anywhere near the mark,” she said slowly. “I think I should recognise the shape of that man’s head again. If I have given a description which seems to reflect on some person connected with Gardien, the sooner I prove or disprove the suspicion the better. After that, however, I shall consider that I have no further obligations in the matter.” She sighed and then gave a diffident little laugh. “It’s almost pathetic—I’ve always enjoyed what I call my nice quiet little murders so much—the ones I write about, you know—and yet the thought of appearing as a witness in a real criminal case fills me with horror.”
“Yes, I think I can understand that,” replied Mrs. Etherton. “It’s a publicity of a sort that one doesn’t care about. As I told you, I have not the least wish to have my affairs dissected in the witness-box. When my publishers have asked me for ‘publicity’ matter—my life story, and all that nonsense—I have consistently refused to oblige them. If ever it gets to the point of their insisting on a photograph I shall send them some one else’s.”
“Do you really think we shall all have to give evidence?” inquired Miss Rees, and Mrs. Etherton replied:
“I should think it is highly probable. You know, it seems a thousand pities to me that you did not happen to open your eyes when I passed you on the stairs a moment or so before the fuse happened.”
Miss Rees went very pink. “I don’t quite follow you. I am sorry—”
“It’s so simple,” said Mrs. Etherton briskly. “I was upstairs, but I have no means of proving it. You were noticed—fortunately—as you came downstairs. I was not. If you had seen me as I passed you on the couch—”
“But I didn’t,” said Miss Rees, getting pinker still.
“No. It seems a pity,” said Mrs. Etherton. “Do think it over. You may remember something—a movement, or a slight draught as I passed you. I find that I can often piece small impressions together after an event. I was saying so to Ashton Vale last night. He was the only member of the party whom I had met before. I did think of ringing him up to talk things over, and then I decided against it. If he did have anything to do with it, he won’t want to talk about it. If he didn’t, he doesn’t know any more than you or I.”
“Mr. Vale? but why—?”
Mrs. Etherton broke in on the other’s shocked surprise.
“Why not Vale as well as any one else? He’s clever, very clever, and economists aren’t sensitive. If you come to think of it, Coombe collected a most interesting set of men from the point of view of the inspector who’s investigating the business. Ashton Vale is cool, cynical and competent—clever with a capital C. Digby Bourne has seen so many strange things among his travels amid primitive people that a murder more or less would leave him quite calm. His principal reaction to Gardien’s death was disappointment that the Treasure Hunt was cut short. Young Strafford is of the hot-tempered, romantic variety, and his books display such virtuosity in strange ways of killing people that he’d have had no trouble in improvising sudden death for any one, on any occasion, anywhere. In fact it’s a very pretty problem. Now I hope that I shall see you at Miss Coombe’s.”
“Yes,” said Miss Rees, “I said I’d go and I’ll stick to it. You don’t want me to mention our talk?”
“I’d be very glad if you didn’t. It’s neither here nor there—but do go and see Mardon-Elliott. You’ll have plenty of time before lunch.”
When Mrs. Etherton had re-entered her own flat, she stood by the window for some time in deep contemplation. “I don’t know if I was a fool to go or not,” she said to herself. “It’s all very difficult—but I think she’ll go and see Elliott.”
Miss Rees also stood by her window and gazed out unseeingly at the rolling Heath.
“What exactly did she mean?” she murmured to herself. “Have I got
to go and see this man Elliott—and why did she tell me about her husband? Really, it’s all too confusing for words.”
She looked at the table where lay her neat pile of manuscript, The Clue of the Silencer, and sighed again.
“Human contacts aren’t your strong point, my dear,” she said to herself.
“It’s easy enough to attribute motives on paper, but when it comes to assessing real people, I’m all at sea. What did the woman mean me to think? and why did she want me to say I saw her when I was on the landing?”
XI
The inquests on Andrew Gardien and Mardon-Elliott were presided over by a coroner “who knew his job” as the C.I.D. would have put it; in other words a coroner who knew that when the police wanted an adjournment following promptly on the necessary formality of identification, they were not to be embarrassed by untimely questions and answers in a coroner’s court. The only witnesses to be called for the Gardien inquest were Mr. Barton-Hobbs, and Dean, the manservant from Regency Court, who identified Andrew Gardien as a tenant of that address, followed by Graham Coombe and Chief Inspector Macdonald, who gave evidence as to finding the body, and Dr. Wright, who attested to the time of death, and the probability of its cause as heart failure, conceivably following electric shock due to some contretemps with the fitting of the electric fire. The doctor whom Gardien had previously consulted as to the state of his heart was abroad and could not be communicated with in time to give evidence. The coroner promptly seized on this fact as a reason for adjourning the inquiry until full evidence could be produced concerning the state of deceased’s heart prior to his death. There were a number of journalists in court who had to make the best of this meagre story, among whom was Peter Vernon, who paid more attention to those present than to the quick question and answer of the proceedings. Ashton Vale and Denzil Strafford were both in the court, the former looking interested but quite unmoved, as he studied the different speakers with a thoughtful eye. Strafford had a wary look. He glanced round the court once or twice as though he expected some one else to appear, and the rapidity of the proceedings left him apparently nonplussed.
News travels swiftly in London, especially among the journalist confraternity, and the news of Gardien’s death, followed by that of Elliott, had made a number of journalists jump at the thought of a scoop. Vernon had the advantage of his fellows inasmuch as he had some inside information. Macdonald, knowing Vernon’s ability to get information of a sort which the police find hard to come by, had let the journalist know of the two inquests and at the same time indicated than any news-gossip, rumour, or suggestion, concerning Elliott and his associates, would be gratefully received. Vernon, with a certain amount of information concerning Graham Coombe’s party, looked around the court during the brief Gardien inquest, and felt his journalistic ears pricking with interest. He wanted to know more about the party, and yet knew that to approach Macdonald when the latter was hard on the trail would be completely useless. He looked at Strafford with a speculative eye and concluded that if it were a choice between him and Ashton Vale, the younger man would be the more hopeful proposition from the point of view of news value. At the conclusion of the proceedings, the journalist left the court side by side with Strafford and addressed him cheerfully.
“Funny business. More in it than meets the eye. Heard the rest of the story?”
Strafford looked at him with suspicion, and yet a lively curiosity, and Vernon went on, “You don’t remember me. My name’s Vernon. I met you at the Scribbler’s Club last autumn. I expect you’re interested in this, as you’re on Coombe’s list too.”
“Naturally. What do you mean by the rest of the story?”
“Ever heard of Mardon-Elliott, the agent? He dealt with Gardien’s stuff.”
“What about him?”
“Well, he’s due for an inquest on himself in about an hour’s time—not here, at the Strand Court. Funny business when you come to think of it.”
“When did Elliott die then?”
Vernon looked round cautiously. He had limed his man, but did not want his fellow journalists to join in the conversation.
“Inquests always make me thirsty,” he said. “What about you?”
“It doesn’t need an inquest in my case,” said Strafford, “although a thirst in the afternoon’s a poor business. I don’t like coffee and I loathe tea. Are you going on to the other show?”
Vernon nodded. “You bet. If they don’t hang together, I’m a Dutchman.”
“Then come to my digs for a quick one. It’ll be on your way—just off John Street.”
“Thanks. Nothing’d please me better.”
The two men strode off together as by common consent, knowing that they could cross the west-side streets more quickly on foot than the slow procession of buses or taxis in the crowded roads.
“Fact is, I feel I’ve missed the bus badly,” went on Vernon. “I had a card for Coombe’s party and couldn’t go because I had to cover a damn dull labour party meeting at Liverpool. Came back by the mail train and found I’d been put on the wrong horse.”
Strafford gave him a quick glance. “And you’re hoping to lay off your bet after the race has started?”
“Why not?” queried Vernon. “Nothing for nothing’s a good motto. You were at Coombe’s party, and the old ears are just about flapping for the why and wherefore of a heart attack, aren’t they? If Elliott had a heart attack too, you might like to hear about it, and I’ve given you a tip before starting prices.”
Strafford laughed. “Right oh. Nothing like knowing how we stand. Did you know Gardien?”
“No. No one seemed to know him. That’s what’s so intriguing. No one knows much about Elliott, either. I’ve had a busy morning. Ran his typist to earth in Cricklewood and took her out to lunch. Got a few names to get busy with. Elliott ran Jake Duncan’s stuff, and Simon Grand—the chap who got away with Channel Crossing. It sold like blazes and they’re filming it now. Ten per cent on those doings is a nice little spot for any agent to get on with.”
Their conversation broke off as they crossed Trafalgar Square and forced their way through the perpetual crowd outside Charing Cross. Vernon caught sight of a familiar lean face a few yards away and risked a grin—he was behind Strafford—Macdonald looked preoccupied, but Vernon had hopes of talking to him later if he had to go and sit beside his bed in the small hours. A few minutes later Strafford stopped, and let himself and Vernon into a house close to John Street, saying:
“Hope you’re in good training. Eighty-seven stairs. No lift.”
They made short work of the stairs and entered a small bed-sitting room, obviously “let furnished,” in which Strafford’s books were piled on every available surface.
“I’ve got about twenty minutes,” said Vernon as Strafford got busy with glasses. “Thanks. Salut! Lord, I wanted that! Well, my typist lass was out to spill the beans to the quickest bidder. She told me that Elliott had an appointment with Gardien at 8 o’clock last night. Every one left the block where Elliott’s office is by 7.30. Elliott was found shot in his room there this morning. That’s my little lot.”
“Good Lord!”
Strafford’s interest was the more apparent because, having mixed his own drink, he forgot to swallow it.
“You think Gardien shot Elliott?”
“No. If Gardien had been going to shoot anybody, he wouldn’t have been such a mutt as to make an appointment to draw attention to himself. Looks more like a frame-up to remove them both. What happened last night at Coombe’s?”
“Want it for your paper?”
“No. Not just like that. I’ll undertake not to publish anything you tell me without permission. Honest to God.”
Strafford hesitated, and then caught sight of the drink which he had forgotten. As he raised it to his lips a telephone bell rang outside the door, and Strafford jumped at the sound and put down his glass again.
“Sorry. Won’t be a moment.”
He was across the room in a few
long strides, and Vernon murmured to himself, “You were expecting that call. Some one ringing up to ask how the doings went? I wonder. This sort of game makes one as suspicious as sin.”
He got up and began to prowl round the room, looking at the books which were piled up anyhow. In the waste-paper basket there was a heap of half torn up sheets—galley proofs, as Vernon knew at a glance. A title page caught his eye and he fished it out of the basket.
High as Haman, by Simon Grand.
“The blighter! So he’s Simon Grand, is he? Must be. Wouldn’t have proof sheets kicking about else. That means he knew Elliott, and he’s been letting me babble on like the brook and never given a thing away. I’ll just jolly well rattle him up a bit before I’ve done.”
Shoving the title sheet from the waste-paper basket into his pocket, Vernon looked around for any further evidence concerning the surprising young man who lived in this untidy room. A letter stamped and ready for posting lay on the mantelshelf addressed to “Thomas Strafford, Esq., The Hall., Bishop’s Wraden, Reading.”
It was not until later when Macdonald pointed it out, that Peter Vernon saw anything apposite about that address. He was still standing by the mantelpiece, when Strafford re-entered the room, saying:
“Sorry. I rang off as soon as I could. Take a pew and have another drink. You were asking me about Coombe’s party.”
He gave a quick description of the party, mentioning the names of those present and the essential points about their positions at the time of the fuse; Coombe, in the library, himself and Miss Delareign in the lounge but not within sight of one another, Vale in the dining-room, Miss Coombe in the basement and the others upstairs. He also mentioned the stranger seen entering the telephone-room, quoting Miss Rees’ brief description of him. The brevity and conciseness of the narrative struck Vernon as remarkably able; Strafford had a reporter’s knack of putting essentials into a few words and avoiding irrelevancies.
These Names Make Clues Page 15
