by Paul Halter
There was an icy silence. Everyone was looking at the dead man. Henrietta added, her eyes gleaming:
‘I won’t hide from you that I thought of Grandpapa’s attack when I saw Father in that same position.’
There was a further silence. The presence of Theodore Vickers in the room was almost palpable.
‘Grandpapa is dead, but he’s not far away.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Hurst, now as white as a sheet.
Henrietta pointed to the window with a faraway expression in her eyes. Simon, uncomfortable, cleared his throat and explained:
‘He’s buried in the cemetery, right next door.’
Hurst, his eyes locked on the window, imagined for a moment a mist-filled landscape full of gravestones, then dismissed the thought with a furious gesture.
‘I might as well admit it straight away, gentlemen, my father’s death doesn’t move me at all.’ The serene expression returned to Henrietta’s face as she contemplated the tragic scene. ‘Extraordinary! I must make sketches right away. I can’t lose this moment of inspiration. Excuse me, but....’
‘We still have some questions to ask you, miss,’ said Hurst.
‘Then come back tomorrow,’ replied Henrietta. ‘Goodnight, gentlemen. Goodnight, Simon,’ she added, giving him a fleeting smile. She turned on her heel and left the room. The footsteps in the hallway faded away.
‘Henrietta isn’t quite all there,’ explained Simon. ‘Not exactly mad, but very strange...since a childhood accident. Nevertheless, everything she said about her grandfather was true, as far as I know. Valerie already told me.’
‘Hell’s bells!’ bellowed Hurst. ‘It’s past eleven and we haven’t made any progress. Quite the opposite, we’re getting bogged down from one minute to the next. Twist, say something!’
The criminologist remained silent, puffing on his pipe. Fred Springer, who had said nothing for a while, turned to Simon and asked:
‘Before the butler and Miss Vickers arrived, you were about to answer a question. Dr. Twist asked you if you’d seen someone near the property and you seemed to hesitate.’
Simon appeared dizzy.
‘Answer, Cunningham,’ ordered Hurst. ‘It’s very important. If you did see someone, it could have been the murderer leaving the scene. The timing fits. Answer, Cunningham, or I’ll begin to think you’re covering for someone!’
‘I never said I’d seen someone,’ replied Simon, looking very pale. ‘But I’m beginning to wonder whether this case is affecting my reason. I thought I saw someone, just as I rounded the bend coming here. Someone at the entrance to the cemetery.’
‘Someone? What kind of person?’
‘Listen, chief, please don’t push me. I’m not at all sure about what I’m saying. I have the impression of falling victim to an illusion.’ Simon, seemingly exhausted, made an obvious effort to think. ‘It happened so quickly... someone very thin, dressed in rags, with grey hair...I was so surprised to see someone going into the cemetery at nine o’clock at night that I doubted my senses.’
‘Your description could be that of an old man...or a dead man in a shroud!’ observed Hurst.
7
The Conjurer
The room fell silent once again.
Simon held his head in his hands and uttered an almost inaudible ‘yes.’ Then, suddenly calm, he punched the palm of his hand and exclaimed:
‘I had a vision, that’s all! It can happen to anyone. Besides, I wasn’t myself: I’d had to cancel my evening with Valerie without giving her a reason. She’d hung up on me. Heaven knows what she imagined. And, to tell you the truth, that strange invitation from her father which had to be kept secret made me very uneasy. I had a sixth sense about it. I’m rarely wrong and I wasn’t wrong this time. Valerie... My God!... When she finds out....’
Faced with Simon’s distress and near-panic—very unlike him—Hurst regained his calm. Looking sympathetically at his subordinate, he lit a cigar and said:
‘Calm down, young man, calm down. We’ll put this nightmare behind us, you can be sure of that. In my experience—.’
He was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by rapid footsteps. A masculine shape appeared in the doorway of the study.
‘What’s happening here?’ said the newcomer. ‘Harold!’
Roger Sharpe was about fifty years old. Well-built, olive-skinned, with a friendly face and an assured bearing, he could have passed for a Mediterranean type were it not for the Scandinavian blondness of his curly hair. Still wearing his stage clothes—an impeccably cut white suit setting off a bright red shirt—he had class. It was evident that Roger Sharpe, confirmed bachelor, was attractive to women.
‘It’s a joke!’ he exclaimed with a deep, resonant laugh. ‘Ah! I get it: a rehearsal for your forthcoming novel. You can get up now, Harold, I’m not falling for it.’
Noticing the solemn faces all around, the smile vanished from his own face and he went swiftly over to the body:
‘My God!’ He placed the small black case he was holding on the floor.
Simon introduced him and apprised him of the situation. He listened attentively, occasionally shaking his head in disbelief, then declared:
‘But it’s completely crazy. It’s just like the scene from his new novel!’
‘Quite,’ said Hurst. ‘And we’re counting on your professional knowledge to help us. You’re a conjurer, if I understand correctly?’
‘Yes,’ replied Sharpe pensively.
‘Didn’t Mr. Vickers consult you about the novel he was writing?’ asked Simon, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
‘No, Simon, not this time. He explained his puzzle to me, naturally—which I liked, incidentally, and which intrigued me. But he didn’t explain the trick to me. He was very proud, even amused, to see me, an expert in magic, flummoxed. But, as I say, he wouldn’t tell me the secret, even though I pressed him hard.’ He considered the banquet and the corpse. ‘This is incredible...insane. What happened here? I’d like you to go through the sequence of events again, in great detail.’
Fred Springer repeated what Simon had said a few minutes earlier, but in greater detail.
Roger stood a long time without saying anything, then loosened his tie and lit a cigarette.
‘For the introduction and preparation of the dinner,’ he said eventually, ‘I can’t see any major problems except for how the murderer got out of the room. May I?’
He went over to the window which he examined carefully.
He shook his head: ‘You could possibly lock the window from the outside by passing a thread under the door or through the keyhole. Complicated, but doable. Unfortunately there are shutters as well, which make escape seemingly impossible. But I’ve seen worse.’
He crossed the study to examine the door and the damaged frame.
‘The bolt must be very hard to move,’ he noted. ‘Have you already tried?’
Hurst nodded.
Roger hesitated for a moment, then declared:
‘Without using a complicated apparatus which would inevitably be left in the room, I can assure you, gentlemen, that this door could not have been bolted from the outside. Absolutely impossible. Are you sure you didn’t see anything close to the door when you broke it down?’
Simon and Springer were adamant on that point.
‘What about the half-filled bowl of water, Mr. Sharpe? What’s your opinion on that?’ asked Hurst. ‘Do you think that can have anything to do with the murderer’s disappearance?’
Roger shrugged.
‘Nothing obvious. But, since Harold mentioned it in his novel, who knows? You know, it might not be murder after all. It could be that Harold killed himself and some practical joker with a macabre sense of humour arranged all the rest, inspired by what the author wrote in his new novel. For what purpose, who knows?’
‘It’s not out of the question, admittedly,’ conceded Hurst, ‘but I’m convinced we’re dealing with a murderer. In any c
ase, it doesn’t make much difference: someone killed him for a purpose or someone arranged things after a suicide. There are nuances, of course, but the problem remains essentially the same. I suggest we continue to call it murder.’ He paused. ‘Why the stage management? There’s obviously the novel that was in preparation, but can you think of anything else?’
Roger Sharpe remained dumbfounded.
‘Why, no... Ah! Wait a minute. There was the argument with his father who had a heart attack and fell on the table just like that. There were candles that night as well.’
‘Do you know if it was that incident which inspired your brother-in-law?’
‘He never told me, but I don’t think so.’ He grimaced doubtfully. ‘If that had been the case, why would he have waited so long to use the idea? And it’s a very tenuous connection anyway: for someone to have a heart attack at the dinner table isn’t all that unusual.’
Inspector Hurst changed the subject.
‘You live here, Mr. Sharpe.’
‘Yes, sort of,’ the other replied, running his fingers through his hair. ‘For now, I’m working in Soho, but most of the time I’m on the road and often abroad.’
‘That wasn’t what I asked. You live here, so you must be aware of what’s happened in this house recently. Your brother-in-law’s death has been fixed at the end of the afternoon, yesterday.’
‘Harold often behaved strangely. He frequently had bizarre demands. We were in the habit of doing what he asked without question. You know that, Simon.’ The sergeant nodded. ‘Yesterday, at lunchtime, he demanded of everyone—including the Kesleys—that they be off the premises, and not even in the neighbourhood, between four o’clock and seven o’clock. This time he’d gone too far and my sister told him to his face what she thought of his demands—which doesn’t happen very often. But she complied anyway. Henrietta flew into a rage—she had a canvas to finish—with the same result. He finally explained the reason for his request: he needed to perform a series of experiments and needed to be absolutely alone. He also added that he would be spending the night and probably the whole of the following day in his study. He was not to be disturbed on any pretext whatsoever. So the house was completely empty at four o’clock yesterday afternoon—except for Harold, of course.’
‘And the murderer,’ added Hurst. ‘Which leads me to the next question: what was each one of the occupants doing at that particular time?’
Roger smiled and calmly lit a cigarette before replying:
‘I haven’t really got an iron-clad alibi. I was walking in Regent’s Park. My sister went to do some shopping in Oxford Street—at least, that’s what she told me as she was leaving. As far as my nieces are concerned, you’ll have to ask them. And the same for the servants.’
Hurst made a note and asked:
‘And what about this evening?’
‘This evening,’ repeated Roger with an enigmatic smile, ‘it’s quite straightforward. I left the table at half past seven to get ready in my room. It must have been a quarter to eight when I left for the music-hall. I did two performances—in front of thirty or so people, by the way—the first of which was from a quarter to nine until nine o’clock.’
‘In other words, you couldn’t have been the murderer or the practical joker?’
‘I’m not going to put words in your mouth, inspector. Unless I have the gift of ubiquity, of course,’ he joked.
‘Which wouldn’t be anything new for a magician,’ replied Hurst in the same vein. ‘Perfect. We now have to address a point we should have probably started with: do you happen to know the terms of the late author’s will?’
‘More or less,’ replied the conjurer, staring fixedly at his cigarette, ‘unless there were some last-minute changes. Apart from a few minor bequests, his estate will be divided into three equal parts: Valerie, Henrietta and my sister, who will also have the use of the property.’
‘And the brother?’ asked Simon timidly.
‘Brother!’ exclaimed Hurst. ‘What brother?’
Roger, looking briefly annoyed, blew a smoke ring and watched it rise.
‘Yes, Harold has a brother. Stephen. A brother who’s been living in Australia for some time now.’
‘Are they on good terms?’ asked Hurst, sensing a new line of enquiry.
‘Lately, yes. Harold went to see him last year. They hadn’t seen each other for twenty years or so—since Stephen left the country.’
Seeing the intrigued looks of those present, Roger smiled in embarrassment.
‘I suppose I’d better begin at the beginning. Diane, my sister, was a young actress when she met Harold... Harold and Stephen. Both brothers courted her assiduously. Stephen reacted badly to my sister’s decision and left almost immediately for Australia, where he had a friend who was a sheep-farmer. We had no news from him for several years. But I do know that more recently they’ve been in regular, though not frequent, correspondence, where each invited the other to come for a visit. It was Harold who first made the decision, last summer, and in a quite surprising manner. He suddenly announced that he was going to see his brother and left without taking his wife or daughters. Why? That’s what everyone wanted to know and, to this day, there’s never been an explanation. All we learnt when he came back is that his brother was well, was still a bachelor and was far from being poor.’
After a silence, Hurst asked:
‘How old is this brother?’
‘The same age as Harold. They’re false twins.’
‘Wait a second,’ said Simon, going over to one of the bookshelves. ‘Mr. Vickers brought back a photo from Australia. Here it is! You can see them both together.’
Hurst took the frame and Twist came over for a look. The photo was of the two brothers, both smiling, each with his hand on the other’s shoulder.
‘Good grief!’ exclaimed the inspector. ‘The facial features aren’t exactly the same, but for the rest: curly black hair, height, build, deportment, they’re as like as two peas.’
Suddenly he frowned and looked over at the body. After taking a few notes he addressed Roger again:
‘I’d like to ask you a rather delicate question, Mr. Sharpe. There are certain rumours circulating about your brother-in-law. Apparently—.’
‘I see,’ cut in Roger. ‘The rumours are certainly exaggerated, but there’s a grain of truth in them. Harold did have a few indiscretions from time to time. Nothing serious, and he wasn’t what you call a lady’s man. We went out together once and I noticed he liked to strike up conversations. If you want to know what I think, I’d say he was testing the reactions of women so he could use the material in his novels. But there, I’m getting ahead of myself.’
‘And did his wife know about it?’
‘I’m pretty sure she did, but she suffered in silence, just giving him reproachful looks. I have to say that Harold was not a very easy partner. He would sometimes shut himself in his room for days and not talk to anyone. Luckily, he had his charming side but he went from one extreme to the other. One night, for example, we were awakened by the sound of Neapolitan music. It was Harold with two mandolin players, serenading his wife under her window. To be honest, he’s always been a mystery to me and he’ll stay that way now forever. His behaviour was so strange, so disconcerting...I could give you other examples. He maintained quite good relations with our neighbour, Colin Hubbard, a retired doctor—a courteous and discreet fellow. They saw very little of each other, once a month, if that. And then suddenly Harold started to see him practically on a daily basis. Why? A mystery.’
‘We’ll question him,’ declared Hurst, smiling grimly. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of it. What I’d like to see now are the notes he jotted down for his novels. I assume he must have done that. Can you help us?’
‘Yes, he had a red notebook, but I don’t know where he kept it. Maybe somewhere on these shelves.... It’s like a student’s notebook. You can’t mistake it: he’d written the title of his new book, Death Invites You, on the cover.’<
br />
‘We’ll find it, Mr. Sharpe, don’t worry. Ah! One final thing: do you know where we can find the address of his brother, we have to notify him.’
Roger went over to the bookshelves, rummaged around and found a diary, which he consulted:
‘Here it is.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hurst, making a note. ‘I think that’ll be all for tonight. We’ll meet again tomorrow.’
They heard the front door close and quick footsteps in the hall, then Valerie came into the room. Her face went white. Simon rushed towards her.
8
Things Get Complicated
The next day, Sunday, Dr. Twist and Sergeant Cunningham met Inspector Hurst in his office in Scotland Yard. The latter, standing in front of the window, seemed absorbed in the view of Victoria Street, which was starting to show signs of life. A pale sun was emerging over the rooftops and the leaves of the trees bordering the street rustled in a light breeze. He interrupted his reverie to sit down opposite his companions. Dr. Twist waited impassively, his back as straight as an arrow, curls of bluish smoke flowing from his pipe. Simon watched them mechanically as he thought of the previous night and Valerie’s despair. Shaking with convulsive sobs, she had listened to him explain what the police had discovered about the tragedy, her head pressed against his shoulder. She asked his forgiveness for her behaviour and her ridiculous attitude. Shamefully, she confessed she hadn’t gone to the theatre. Furious with him for the cancellation and carried away by jealousy, imagining the worst after his phone call, she had wandered aimlessly before joining her friends in a night-club. How could she have behaved so stupidly after her father had just been murdered? She was quite ready to accept a break-off of the engagement, with no hard feelings, but she wanted him to know she loved him even more than before. Simon, terrified by the idea of a separation, hastened to reassure her that not for one moment had such a thought—undignified for a gentleman, furthermore—crossed his mind. The noble sentiment he harboured for her had only grown stronger; how could Valerie have suspected such a cavalier attitude on his part? He would be at her side to support her throughout this cruel ordeal....
