Off the Record

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘I see,’ said Carrington again. He put a hand to his mouth. ‘Oh, crikey. It looks . . . It looks as if I’m for it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Once more Jack tried to will self-confidence across the table. Carrington looked close to panic.

  ‘Let me take you back to that afternoon with Dunbar. You said you argued with him. Did the argument continue all afternoon?’

  ‘No. I’ll give Dunbar his due, he knew how to handle people.’ Carrington gave a sudden boyish smile. ‘The fact is, I got interested. As I said, he knew his stuff and asked some fairly penetrating questions. I’ve been working on amplification. That’s how to increase the electrical impulse sufficiently to reproduce the soundwaves so they can generate a detectable vibration in a diaphragm.’ He grinned. ‘I drew pages of diagrams for him.’

  ‘What pen did you use?’

  ‘Pen?’ Carrington looked startled. ‘I didn’t use a pen. I always have a pocketful of pencils. When I’m merely sketching out ideas I always use a pencil.’

  ‘Did you have a pen with you?’

  ‘I think I must have done. I usually carry one in my jacket pocket.’

  ‘What kind of pen do you use?’

  ‘It’s a Waterman with a gold nib. Why? Is it important?’

  Jack smiled easily. ‘Probably not. What colour ink do you prefer?’

  ‘Black, as a general rule.’

  Jack’s spirits dipped. The suicide note had been written in black.

  ‘Look, what is all this about my pen?’ asked Carrington impatiently. ‘The police wanted to know about it, too.’

  Jack held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry. I daresay it won’t lead anywhere but it was just an idea that occurred to me. These pages of diagrams that you drew – did you take them with you?’

  ‘I’ll say. I might have left Dunbar in a better frame of mind than I started with, but I was blowed if I was leaving my work scattered round the room for him to help himself.’

  ‘Yes, I can see you’d be cautious. Did you have a bag or a case with you?’

  Carrington frowned, trying to remember. ‘No . . . No, I didn’t. I just stuffed everything in my coat pockets. It’s a bad habit of mine.’

  ‘And doesn’t do much for the line of your clothes. When did you realize the time?’

  ‘It was coming up to half four. I suddenly remembered I’d promised to meet Mrs Lewis and realized I was going to be late. I bundled all my things together, but, of course, you can’t just leave like that. Dunbar kept me for a few minutes, thanking me for my time and so on. Then I shot off as fast as I could go. I was only a few minutes late in the end. I’m a pretty quick walker and it’s not very far.’ Carrington looked at him. ‘There’s not much more I can say.’ He paused hesitantly. ‘Major Haldean, is there anything you can do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jack honestly. ‘I’ll tell you this much though, Mr Carrington, I’m willing to try.’

  Carrington readjusted his glasses. ‘That’s good of you.’ His voice was oddly shy. ‘It’s very good of you. I’ve . . . I’ve enjoyed talking to you. The people here try to be decent enough, but there’s not really anyone I can talk to properly. They all seem to know things I haven’t a clue about and I feel like a spare part. They’re kind enough but . . .’

  ‘They’re talking about trivialities and you want to talk about real things?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Carrington in eager agreement.

  ‘And yet, you know, ordinary people have a lot to talk about. All you have to do is listen.’

  ‘Listen,’ repeated Carrington. ‘I can do that, I suppose. Anyone can do that.’

  ‘You’d be surprised how many people don’t want to,’ said Jack dryly. He got up to go. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’

  Carrington’s mouth twisted. ‘I wish I could say “I’ll show you out”.’ He smiled once more. ‘And Major Haldean – thanks for everything. I don’t want to go overboard, but I do appreciate what you’re doing.’

  ‘Keep your chin up. I’ll do my best.’ Carrington looked so heartened that Jack’s conscience bit him. After all, he thought, as the doors of Brixton Prison clanged behind him, cheery remarks were all very well. But where on earth did he start?

  SEVEN

  He decided to start at the Marchmont Hotel. By means of a long-winded reminiscence of a friend who had supposedly recommended the Marchmont to him, Jack managed to secure room 202, three doors down from what had been Dunbar’s room. From Bill’s description, the room seemed identical to Dunbar’s and, like his, looked out on to Southampton Row.

  He was, quite frankly, hoping for inspiration. Like Bill, he thought something about Carrington’s story didn’t add up. There was a loose thread somewhere that had bothered Bill and bothered him. Carrington bothered him. He unpacked his few belongings thoughtfully. He liked the man, for heaven’s sake. He had an engaging, dishevelled charm that was so disarming it could easily – far too easily – be deceptive. He’d run across engaging murderers before.

  Half an hour later, he glanced at his watch. Ten past four. My word, it was quiet. Carrington had been seen in the lobby by Mrs Dunbar at half four, so if he had shot Dunbar, it must have been roundabout this time in the afternoon. The Marchmont dozed in the summer afternoon sun, the hum of London traffic in the street below softened into drowsy melody. He opened the dressing-table drawer and took out a Webley .32, weighing it thoughtfully in his hand for a moment. He had brought the Webley second-hand in a fishing tackle and gun shop. Bill was right. Webleys were easy enough to obtain.

  A familiar imp of mischief made him grin. This was going to be loud. He opened the window, pointed the gun at a piece of blue sky and pulled the trigger.

  Although he had been expecting a fairly impressive noise, the sound of the pistol was shattering at close quarters. He hastily threw the gun back in the drawer and slammed it shut, trying hard not to laugh. By jingo, that should make someone jump. He opened the door on to the corridor and left it ajar. If someone did come to investigate, they would probably start with an opened door. There weren’t, he noticed, any fumes from the pistol to give him away. The Webley, an automatic, used smokeless powder. Picking up a magazine, he sat at the desk and lit a cigarette looking, he hoped, the picture of innocence.

  A few minutes later he heard the sound of footsteps followed by a timid knock. ‘Sir? Are you all right in there, sir?’

  He crossed the room and opened the door fully. Outside stood the chambermaid, a plump woman in her fifties, at a guess, with iron-grey hair. His heart lifted. He’d read the various statements from the witnesses at the hotel and the chambermaid who found Dunbar’s body, a Mrs Doris Gledburn, had given her age as fifty-three. With any luck, this was her.

  The worried expression on her face cleared as she saw him. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but I thought I heard a noise.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Jack, cheerfully. ‘Terrific bang, wasn’t it? Goodness knows what it was.’ He gestured to the window with his cigarette. ‘A car or something, I expect, backfiring in the street. It made an awful racket. It sounded like a gun going off.’

  A startled look leapt into her eyes. ‘Well, that’s it, sir. And . . . And . . .’

  ‘I say!’ said Jack, apparently struck by a sudden thought. ‘This is the place where that chap, Whatsisname, got shot, isn’t it?’ He looked at her with sympathy. ‘Good Lord, you must’ve thought it was happening again.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘It was this hotel, wasn’t it?’

  She looked round and edged a bit closer to the door. ‘Well, I don’t know as we’re not really meant to talk about it. Mr Sutton – he’s the manager – doesn’t want it spoken about. He’s very keen on the Marchmont’s reputation and says it’ll give us a bad name, but really, I can’t see it. It’s hardly our fault, is it?’

  ‘I don’t suppose it happened because of rotten service,’ agreed Jack. To his surprise she smiled.

  ‘He wouldn’t have found that here, sir. We’re v
ery particular.’

  He smiled back. ‘I’m sure you are. It’s a nasty shock for everyone, though, finding a body.’

  She nodded vigorously. ‘I know all about that, sir.’ She looked at him with a sort of reluctant pride. ‘I was the one who found him.’

  Jack felt a glow of satisfaction. So this really was Mrs Gledburn. Not only that, but she was obviously quite happy to talk about what must have been one of the most startling experiences of her life, and he was perfectly willing to let her. ‘Good Lord,’ he said with flattering interest. ‘You actually found him?’ He looked behind him in sudden, if assumed, concern. ‘It wasn’t this room, was it?’

  ‘Oh no, sir, don’t you worry.’

  Jack breathed a very convincing sigh of relief. ‘I’m glad about that. It must have been terrible.’

  ‘Oh, it was.’ Mrs Gledburn, glanced up and down the corridor, saw a reassuring absence of senior staff, and shifted her position into an agreeably gossipy stance. ‘I’ve had nightmares about it.’ She clasped her expansive bosom and rolled her eyes. ‘Nightmares. Just two doors along from here, it was.’ Jack put his head round the door and peered solemnly down the corridor. ‘I went into the room and there he was, lying all stiff and cold.’ She leaned forward impressively. ‘Murdered!’

  Jack’s jaw dropped. ‘Murdered?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes, sir, murdered.’ She lowered her voice still further. ‘What’s more, I think I saw the man who did it.’

  The thrill of discovery ran through him. This was new. Mrs Gledburn had made no mention of seeing anyone in her statement. ‘You actually saw him?’

  Mrs Gledburn leaned forward confidentially, flattered by his interest. ‘Yes, sir. Lurking on the corridor he was, leaning against the wall. I didn’t know as much then, but he was overcome with guilt, and no wonder! He had his head in his hands, sort of upset like. I caught sight of him before I found the poor gentleman dead, and that put it out of my mind, as you might say. I did wonder if I should tell someone, but I talked it over with the other ladies here and they said it was better to let sleeping dogs lie.’

  ‘Couldn’t he have been a guest?’

  ‘We thought about that, but if he was a guest he’d have gone into his room, not stood hanging about on the corridor. It did strike me as he may have lost his way but he didn’t want to be seen, not by the way he was acting. As soon as he saw me coming he went down the stairs and I thought, “Hello, what do you want, I wonder?” because we’ve got to be careful, you know, about robberies and suchlike. Then I went in to give Mr Dunbar his towels and it gave me such a turn, I forgot all about it. They said at first he’d made away with himself, so I didn’t think anything of the man for a while. Then, when it came out he’d really been murdered, I tell you, I could hardly breathe, when I remembered how close I’d been to the man who did it.’

  She shuddered. ‘It was a blessing I didn’t speak to him. Why, I might have been murdered myself. I read in the paper he was one of these mad scientists, the sort who want to be blowing us up with their nasty bombs and poisoning us with gas and such like, as if we didn’t have enough of that in the war. It’s not right, is it? I tell you, I could have been struck down as sure as I’m stood here.’ Her chest heaved and her eyes closed momentarily at the thought of her narrow escape. ‘There’s enough trouble in this world without looking for it.’

  ‘Absolutely right,’ said Jack, radiating sympathy. ‘Would you know him if you saw him again?’

  Her face fell. ‘I’ve asked myself that many a time. I looked at the photo in the paper of what’s-he-called, the man they arrested, but those pictures are very deceiving, aren’t they? It’s not like seeing someone properly, like. I might do, but I’m not sure. After all, I only had a glimpse of him, and he had his hat and coat on. I don’t know if I could swear to him again. Even if I could, I don’t want to get mixed up with the police.’

  ‘Didn’t you have to talk to the police anyway?’

  ‘Well, I did,’ admitted Mrs Gledburn grudgingly, ‘but that was all about finding the body and so on.’

  Jack looked at her thoughtfully. To have found a murdered man almost begged to be matched with a sight of the murderer. It was too good a chance to miss and yet, if she were making it up, he would have expected her to embroider the story with more detail. ‘Did he have staring eyes?’ he probed gently. Surely she couldn’t resist that lure. ‘I’ve always heard that murderers have staring eyes.’

  For a moment she hesitated, then shook her head regretfully. ‘I couldn’t tell you, sir. It’d be different, perhaps, if I saw him again, but I can’t bring to mind if he was fair or dark or anything. I think he was a youngish man, but I can’t really be sure of that, even. It was him though, and no mistake.’ Mrs Gledburn shuddered agreeably once more. ‘It makes me go cold all over, thinking about it.’

  ‘And I suppose you heard the shot, too?’ said Jack in an awe-struck way. ‘I read that it sounded like a thunderclap. Everyone thought there was a storm brewing and one of the maids was so startled she broke a teapot and, when she looked at the leaves, said there was a death on the way.’

  Mrs Gledburn smiled indulgently. ‘The rubbish that they do write, I don’t know. I think they make it up half the time.’

  This was so undoubtedly true that Jack mentally congratulated her on her scepticism.

  ‘We didn’t hear anything, sir, not me or the rest of the maids, and we would have done, I’m sure.’ She sniffed. ‘We’d have certainly heard about it if one of us had broken a teapot, murder or no murder. We’d been having a bit of a chat in the Maids’ Room at the end of the corridor before I went round with the towels. I was a bit behind as Gladys Street’s daughter’s just had a new baby and she was telling us all about it.’ Her voice softened. ‘Eight pounds three ounces, he was and a lovely little boy with a full head of hair.’ Her forehead creased. ‘It’s funny that we didn’t hear anything, though. I can’t understand it. After all, I’ve just come from the Maids’ Room now and we all heard that car backfiring as plain as plain.’

  ‘Was there any other noise? Perhaps men digging up the street or something?’

  Mrs Gledburn shook her head. ‘No, there was nothing. If there were men at work outside, we’d have known. This is a very quiet hotel, sir. You can hear a pin drop, particularly in the afternoons.’

  ‘I wonder when he was shot, then? If you didn’t hear it, I mean.’

  Mrs Gledburn looked perplexed. ‘D’you know, that’s a puzzle, that is. We must have just missed it, but I don’t know how. There’s always someone around at this time of day. I don’t care what was said in the papers about tea-leaves and suchlike, we didn’t hear a thing.’ There were the sounds of footsteps on the stairs and she regretfully stepped back. ‘Well, I must be off. I hope you’ve got everything you want, sir. I’ll be along with your shaving water later.’

  The next morning Jack woke up slowly, nudged out of sleep by the hushed but unfamiliar noises in the corridor outside. After the excitement of the chambermaid’s revelations about The Man, the evening had passed without further ado. Whoever The Man was, he couldn’t be Gerard Carrington, as Gerard Carrington had been in the lobby before the chambermaid started her rounds. That was something but it wasn’t enough.

  What about the damn gun? Jack put his hands behind his head, lay back on the pillow and stared unseeingly at the bedroom ceiling. Mrs Gledburn had been very sure that no one had heard the shot. It wasn’t, thought Jack, remembering the sleepy somnolence of the Marchmont yesterday afternoon, as if there was any background noise to drown out the sound.

  Mrs Gledburn had referred to it as a puzzle, and, thinking back to his experiment of yesterday, he wholeheartedly agreed. A silencer fitted to the gun was the obvious answer, but that raised as many questions as it answered.

  Dunbar might very well have had a gun, but he’d hardly have a gun and a silencer. A silenced gun was a real assassin’s weapon. Gerard Carrington could have used a silenced gun perfectly easily, but if h
e had thought it through enough to buy a silencer, then he surely would have made a better fist of the job. The supposed suicide had been clumsy enough for Sergeant Butley to see through it right away. Carrington was such an obvious suspect Bill had tracked him down only hours after the crime. And yet . . . It all hung on what a reasonable man would do and a man who was gripped by panic wasn’t reasonable. It wasn’t enough, thought Jack in disgust.

  A brilliant shaft of sunlight lanced a spear across the bed, catching thousands of gilded, dancing dust-motes. They were unexpectedly beautiful and he watched, his senses stilled. The curtain flapped and the dust-motes abruptly vanished. A brief dance and then into darkness, he thought, chilled.

  He knew there was something he had missed. Think! But no thoughts came. It couldn’t be suicide. The angle of the bullet, the missing key, the wrong colour of ink on the note. Nothing there.

  He snuggled back further into the crisp pillows. The noises in the corridor grew closer; comfortable, start-of-the-morning, cup-of-tea-soon noises with the chink of crockery and discreet knocks on doors. He could hear the shrill young voice of the post-boy following the chambermaids. Tea, plain biscuits, letters. Post, sir! There wouldn’t be any letters for him, of course. Bullet, key, ink . . . He sat bolt upright. Ink, pen . . . Post! That was it, surely that was it. He needed to telephone Bill and then he had to post a letter. The chambermaid knocked and with a broad smile he called, ‘Come in.’

  He had an idea.

  It was quarter past four that afternoon when Bill Rackham knocked on the door of Jack’s hotel bedroom. ‘I got the information you wanted,’ said Bill, pulling out a chair and sitting down, after Jack had relieved him of his coat and hat. ‘I’ve spoken to that precious chambermaid of yours, too,’ he added. ‘I’d have liked to have been here when you fired off that gun, I must say.’

  ‘I feel a bit guilty about that,’ said Jack, offering him a cigarette. ‘It gave her the dickens of a fright, poor woman.’