Crimson Snow

by Martin Edwards

  ‘So she came up here while you waited below for your nephew to open your door?’

  ‘Well, no! I came up with her…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I still thought I ought to go: I didn’t like imposing on her good nature!’

  ‘So you actually saw her fall?’

  ‘Well, no! I saw her get out of the window, but I didn’t look to see what happened—I didn’t think it could be dangerous, you see! I was looking at that picture—it’s one of Peter’s—and I heard her scream, and then I heard the thud… And I rushed to the window, but of course I couldn’t see over the parapet! I saw my nephew looking out of his window, and I told him what had happened, and we both rushed downstairs.’

  ‘Who got there first?’

  ‘I did,’ said Mrs. Flitcroft. ‘And I put my coat over her, and when Peter came I went to telephone you. And then Miss Rachel Keer came home—’

  ‘Yes, and oh! If only I’d been five minutes earlier! I wouldn’t have let Lillah go! I’d have told this woman to go and sit on her doorstep! I tell you, Inspector, Lillah didn’t fall accidentally! She was pushed off!’

  ‘A push might be accidental,’ said Inspector Quy. He paused, glancing from one to another, but no one spoke. Inviting Peter Crangley to accompany him, he climbed out of the window and walked along the gutter towards Number 33. It was obvious, from the scratches and rubbings on the sooty coping of the parapet, that Miss Lillah Keer had fallen while negotiating the party wall, the one point at which an accident would be possible. The sash-window of Peter Crangley’s room was open at the bottom. Quy climbed into the comfortable bed-sitting-room, followed by its tenant.

  ‘Was your window open when Miss Keer fell?’

  ‘What, in this weather? No, I opened it when I heard her scream.’

  Inspector Quy sniffed.

  ‘Turpentine—but of course! You’re an artist, too. You heard her scream, then? Although you had the wireless on?’

  ‘Good God, yes!’ Peter Crangley shuddered. ‘I heard her scream. I switched off the wireless, and dashed to the window.’

  ‘What programme was on? Just a routine question.’

  ‘The Children’s Hour.’

  ‘And what was on the Children’s Hour this evening? Just routine, you know.’

  The young man laughed.

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea! I wasn’t really listening, just having the thing as a sort of background noise…’ He stopped rather suddenly.

  ‘To what?’ asked Quy quickly.

  Peter Crangley hesitated.

  ‘Not to house-work, by any chance?’ continued Quy.

  ‘House-work!’ The young man laughed awkwardly.

  ‘Well, it has to be done,’ said Quy seriously. ‘Nothing for us men to be ashamed of, nowadays. I do lashings of it when I’m off-duty. Your place looks very nice and clean—nice polished floor. Who cleans it?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact you’re quite right, I do it myself,’ confessed Peter Crangley. ‘I can’t afford a housemaid on the pay of a P.O. clerk, you know! And I haven’t sold any pictures yet!’

  ‘Where do you keep your brushes?’ asked Quy.

  ‘My brushes? In that jar there!’ said the young man, staring.

  Quy laughed.

  ‘Not your paint-brushes—your house-work brushes! But I suppose,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘you use a mop for a polished floor. My wife does.’

  ‘It’s in that cupboard,’ said the young man, with a sudden odd hesitation.

  Inspector Quy opened the cupboard door and took out a long-handled and very dirty floor-mop. He sniffed at its pleasant scent of turpentine, and twirled it gently round, loosing a little air-flotilla of fluff and motes into the room.

  ‘Don’t do that!’ protested the young man agitatedly. He had gone very pale, and was blinking furiously.

  ‘Not indoors, eh?’ said Quy. ‘No, one shouldn’t. One should do it out of the window. I know, I’ve seen my wife do it.’

  He took the mop to the window, thrust it through into the dark and twirled it over the parapet.

  ‘That’s what I meant when I said a push might be accidental,’ he explained, desisting and returning the mop to its cupboard. ‘It might, or it might not… Just as the window might have been open when the lady was coming along the gutter?’

  ‘You don’t think I’d try to hurt Lillah Keer, do you?’ cried Peter Crangley in a strained, breathless voice. ‘She was my best friend!’

  Inspector Quy suggested gently:

  ‘But it might, mightn’t it, have been the wrong lady who was knocked over the parapet by the push that might have been accidental from the mop that might have been shaken out of the window that might have been open? I think, Mr. Crangley, you’d better come with me to the police-station. There are a few questions I’ll have to ask you—not just routine, this time!’

  ***

  The questions, which concerned the abstraction of a bunch of keys, before her departure, from Mrs. Flitcroft’s handbag, and the restoration of them to the pocket of a fur coat lying over a dead body, as well as certain other matters which soon came to light connected with Mr. Crangley’s ambition for an artist’s career, and his share in a trust left by his grandfather, in which his aunt had a life-interest, led eventually to the conviction of Peter Crangley for the murder of Lillah Keer, and, it is to be hoped, to apologies from Miss Rachel Keer to Mrs. Flitcroft. It also led to reflections from Inspector James Quy on the inflexibility of the criminal mind.

  ‘If young Crangley had accepted the fact that he had unfortunately killed the wrong lady, and had carried on with the perfectly sound scheme he’d thought out for the murder of his aunt, and simply left her keys in her bedroom or somewhere, and admitted at once that he’d shaken his floor-mop out of the window just at the fateful moment, there’d almost certainly have been a verdict of accidental death. After all, a person doing house-work on the top storey can’t be expected to look out in the roof gutter to make sure the coast is clear before shaking a mop over it! But no, having killed the wrong lady, he had to pursue his obsession to get rid of his aunt by trying to fasten the murder of Miss Keer on her! Too rigid-minded. Must have their way at all hazards, these criminals. Can’t cut their losses. And a good job for the rest of us, eh, Baker?’

  P.C. Baker, who, although he has not made much of an appearance in this story, was a bright young officer, brightly agreed.

  Mr. Cork’s Secret

  Macdonald Hastings

  Macdonald Hastings’ brief career as a crime writer formed only one element of a life packed with incident. Douglas Edward Macdonald Hastings (1909–82) was the son of a journalist whose early death left his family short of money; Hastings left school, and worked briefly as a clerk at Scotland Yard before joining the publicity department of Lyons, the caterers. During his time there, he earned extra money through freelance journalism, and in 1939 he was hired by Picture Post. Having made his name as a reporter during the Second World War, he became editor of the legendary Strand Magazine until its last issue appeared in 1950.

  Undaunted by the Strand’s closure, he became ‘Special Investigator’ for the Eagle, a popular boys’ comic, and established a separate reputation as a broadcaster. His first detective novel, Cork on the Water, appeared in 1951, and introduced the eponymous insurance investigator. Cork had a real life model, according to T.J. Binyon’s study of the genre, Murder Will Out, a managing director of Cornhill Insurance called Claude Wilson. Cork appeared in just five novels, but they were successful enough to earn Hastings election to the Detection Club. This short story first appeared in Lilliput magazine, to which Hastings contributed frequently. It was presented as a Christmas competition, readers were invited to guess the nature of Mr. Cork’s secret, and the lucky winners each received a prize of £150.

  ***

  ‘He answer
ed all the questions which the Press reporters put to him in the de Raun case except one…’

  Monsieur Aloysia, a plump but well-made man in black jacket and striped trousers, came out of the gilded lift on the first floor of the Paradise Hotel, followed by two electricians in blue overalls. As he stepped into the passage, he gravely pointed out that one of the illuminated coloured lights on the Christmas trees flanking the lift-gates wasn’t functioning. But he didn’t stop. He walked on, turning right and left from one anonymous corridor to another, until he reached a room numbered 143. He pulled out a master key and turned the lock. The door wouldn’t open. Keeping his hand on the key, he placed his shoulder to it and gave it a gentle shove. The door moved, but slightly.

  ‘Shall we break it down, sir?’ said one of the electricians.

  M. Aloysia looked at the young man in mild rebuke.

  ‘When you ’ave been in the ’otel business as long as I ’ave, Perkins, you will learn that an ’otelier’s first regard is the comfort of ’is guests.’

  He spoke in a well-fed whisper. But although he looked solemn, there was a mischievous gurgle in his voice. The way he spoke made the two electricians grin.

  ‘Then what are we going to do, sir?’ said Perkins. ‘It’s obvious he’s blocked the door.’

  ‘We’ll try next door. You’re an agile young fellow. You can slip through the window and climb along the ledge.’

  Outside the adjoining bedroom, M. Aloysia knocked. Only when he was sure that the occupant was out did he use his key. The electrician, anxious to make a good showing in front of the manager, opened the window. He looked down at the semi-tropical gardens for which the Paradise, ‘a West End hotel in the West Country,’ is so justly famous. Then he threw his leg over the sill. He found a footing on an ornamental stone ledge running along the outside of the building. Clutching at the smelly foliage of the ivy which clothed the wall, he felt his way gingerly across the gap.

  M. Aloysia occupied himself tightening a dripping tap in the wash-basin and looking under the bed to see that the maids were doing their job properly. The other electrician stood gangling at the door.

  Perkins wasn’t gone long. When he swung himself back into the room, the colour had drained out of his cheeks, and he licked his dry mouth with his tongue.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  There was no change in the casual tone of the manager’s voice.

  ‘He’s still living, sir,’ gasped the electrician, ‘but he’s bashed about something awful.’

  ‘Thank you, Perkins.’

  For answer, the electrician fell flat on his face in a faint.

  ***

  ‘He’ll come round in a minute,’ said the manager to the other man. ‘You come with me.’

  Returning to Room 143, he held back the latch and put the full weight of his square frame into the door. The electrician helped. The panelling creaked under the pressure. Then, with a tearing of woodwork, the obstruction fell clear. The surviving electrician pressed forward to climb through the mess. But when he saw the inside of the room, he faltered. The manager patted him sympathetically on the shoulder.

  ‘You wait ’ere,’ he said.

  He manoeuvred his way over the wreckage of the wardrobe into the bedroom. Then M. Aloysia himself gave an exclamation of horror.

  ‘Get the door free quick,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘If the news of this leaks out, it’ll ruin the Christmas business.’

  ***

  Pushing his way through the disordered furniture, he grabbed a towel from the rail of the wash-basin and wrapped it hastily round the battered head of the man on the floor. Whatever the electrician thought, he was a corpse, and a very messy one. M. Aloysia looked ruefully at the spreading stain of blood on the new carpet.

  ‘You and Perkins,’ he ordered, ‘will go straight ’ome. You will talk to nobody in the ’otel about this. Understand? Nobody. Maybe, in due course, the coroner will need you to give evidence. All right. You will tell ’im what you have seen. Now get cracking. Use the staff lift.’

  The bemused electrician collected his mate and the two of them left. M. Aloysia shut himself inside the bedroom. Then he picked up the telephone.

  ‘’Allo, Miss. This is Mr. Aloysia. ’Ow are you, my dear? Splendid. Now be a good girl and put me through to Mr. Gaston in the reception. Gaston, is that you? Comment ça va? ’Ave you got rid of the Press people yet? So. You’ve told them we know nothing. Good. No, we’ve ’ad no news from Mr. de Raun at all. Listen, Gaston. We’ve got a bit of trouble ’ere in Room 143. Ring through to the police, ask them to use the staff entrance as usual, and get out the gentleman’s dossier. Bill outstanding, I suppose? Pity. No, Gaston, ’e’ll never pay it now.’

  As soon as Gaston cut off, M. Aloysia tapped the receiver again.

  ‘Put me through to the ’Ousekeeper… Ah, Mrs. Macpherson, ’ow are you and ’ow is your maid? You’ve sent ’er ’ome? Excellent. Yes, Mrs. Macpherson, it wasn’t ’er imagination. It’s a great nuisance and we shall ’ave to do all we can to keep the news from our other customers. The police will be ’ere soon. When they’ve gone, I shall ’ave to trouble you for a clean carpet from the stores.’

  He glanced accusingly at the corpse.

  ‘I’m sure I can leave it to you, Mrs. Macpherson,’ he went on evenly. ‘Of course, of course. Goodbye.’

  He put down the receiver thoughtfully. Almost at once, the bell rang again.

  ‘Yes, Aloysia ’ere,’ he said wearily. ‘Who wants ’im?’

  As he heard the name, his voice changed.

  ‘Mr. Montague Cork? Put ’im through at once, Miss. ’Ow are you, Mr. Cork? This is indeed a pleasure. And ’ow is Madame? But of course… The Paradise is at your complete disposal.’

  Yet, as he listened to the august voice of the most celebrated insurance man in the world, his pink face wrinkled with anxiety. It was the pride of the Paradise that, on many occasions, Mr. and Mrs. Montague Cork had been its guests. Mr. Cork was at once one of the most respected and wealthy men in the City of London and, as the General Manager and Managing Director of the Anchor Insurance Co., he was a national figure. It was said of him that he had exposed more cases of insurance fraud than Scotland Yard. His big nose and watery eyes, dewlapped like an old bloodhound, was as familiar in the popular papers as the faces of the film stars. And, unlike the film stars, Mr. Cork always paid his bill in full.

  M. Aloysia was in a quandary.

  ‘If only you ’ad called me a week ago,’ he said hopelessly, ‘I could ’ave given you and Mrs. Cork the loveliest suite in the ’otel, with private sitting-room and a terrace overlooking the sea. Marvellous! But now we ’ave nothing, not even for you, Mr. Cork. It’s Christmas. We are booked full up like an egg. Yes, we would do anything for you and Madame. But it is Christmas Eve…’

  In his desperation, he looked to the corpse for inspiration.

  ***

  ‘But wait… I ’ave an idea, Mr. Cork. What time would you and Madame be arriving from London? But that is perfect. I ’ave a guest who is leaving us unexpected. The room is not what I could wish for you, but… thank you, Mr. Cork. We shall be delighted to welcome you again at the Paradise.’

  He replaced the receiver. In spite of the studied calm of his manner, M. Aloysia was a worried man. Only twenty-four hours ago he was congratulating himself on the prospect of the best Christmas business for years. The hotel was booked right up and, to crown it all, Anton de Raun and his new bride, Fanny Fairfield the film star, had booked the bridal suite at the Paradise for their honeymoon. They should have arrived after the wedding yesterday; but, so far they hadn’t turned up. They’d disappeared without a word and left him to wrangle with the droves of reporters and Press photographers who crowded the cocktail bar and carried on as if the hotel had lost the happy couple in the wash.

  ***

  And, after that,
there was this. This was much worse. If it were only one of the familiar suicide cases, he could have dealt with it quite simply; but this was obviously murder. If as much as a whisper got round the hotel, he knew from experience that he’d lose half his bookings. It would call for all his skill to get the police out of the way, and the room cleaned up, before Mr. and Mrs. Cork arrived from London. But, from every point of view, the effort was worth it. And for him, Aloysia, the best hotel manager in Europe, nothing was impossible. It was Christmas Eve. Even the police were human. A bottle of whisky would work wonders. The story was bound to come out in the end but, by the grace of Heaven, there were no newspapers for another two days.

  He was much too disgusted with the corpse for dislocating the business of the hotel to be more than mildly interested in what had happened. That was the affair of the police. Judging by the disorder in the room, the motive was robbery. Presumably, the murderer had climbed up the ivy from the gardens and entered, and made his exit through the open window whose curtains still flapped furiously in the sea breeze. The victim had been battered to death and the weapon, which had been thrown down on the floor, looked like a heavy iron bar; it was wrapped in a rolled newspaper. The only other object which attracted his attention was a large and elaborate leather jewel case, made in the shape of a heart. It lay on the floor, open and empty, showing the milky white silk of the lining spotted with the blood of the dead man.

  There was a knock at the door. M. Aloysia opened it just enough to see who was there.

  ‘Good morning, sir. I understand you’ve got a spot of trouble. I’m Detective-Sergeant O’Flaherty. The coroner’s clerk will be here shortly.’

  ***

  For M. Aloysia, it had been a day of triumphant deception. The police had co-operated magnificently. He’d smuggled them in—the Inspector, the photographer, the doctor, the fingerprint expert, and the rest—without a breath of suspicion that anything was amiss. And he’d got the corpse out of the hotel by concealing it in an ottoman carried by undertakers’ men wearing green baize aprons.