Death Invites You

by Paul Halter

  There was a silence.

  ‘You’re going back there this evening, I believe?’ Hurst asked his subordinate.

  ‘Yes. Valerie’s expecting me. My God, if she finds out....’

  ‘For the moment we have no proof, so you mustn’t say anything.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ sighed Simon.

  ‘Keep your eyes open and observe everyone’s behaviour. If her brother was involved, it’s going to get complicated.’

  13

  Emotions Run High

  It was eight o’clock when the Vickers house appeared in Simon Cunningham’s field of vision. Darkness had absorbed the last light of day and the road was sparsely illuminated. He did manage to make out the entrance to the cemetery and, smiling to himself, he thought about Grandfather Theodore draped in a shroud, with his shaven head and gaunt features. Was it Henrietta—after reporting that her grandfather had threatened her father with the prospect of coming out of his tomb to punish him—who’d prompted him to talk of a shadow vanishing into the cemetery? It must have been. How stupid of him....

  Simon always smiled when he turned into the Vickers property. But he stopped smiling when he noticed two figures by the side of the driveway. He was so startled by their sudden emergence from the shadows that he swerved sharply and almost hit a tree. You only have to think of ghosts for them to appear, he told himself, ashamed of his reaction. He parked the car in front of the house and waited a few moments before lighting a cigarette and stepping out.

  ‘You should buy yourself a Jaguar, old boy!’

  Simon turned round. Roger Sharpe was approaching with his long stride, crunching the gravel of the driveway underfoot.

  ‘Sorry, Mr. Sharpe. My nerves were on edge. I only saw you at the last second.’

  ‘I was just teasing,’ replied Roger amicably, pumping his hand vigorously. ‘And you’re not the only one to be a bit jumpy lately.’

  ‘You’re talking about the person who was with you?’ asked Simon hesitantly.

  ‘No, I wasn’t thinking of Dr. Hubbard.’

  ‘Ah! So it was he. The poor man, I hope I didn’t scare him. At his age one never knows.’

  The conjurer stared at Simon without appearing to see him:

  ‘“The poor man.” I’m not so sure he’s poor—at least, not in the sense you mean.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Roger looked quickly over his shoulder, then explained:

  ‘I’d gone out for some air to calm me down and I’d only taken a few steps when I met him... or, rather, surprised him. He looked like a hunted beast and babbled an excuse: “I was just passing to learn the latest news and see if you needed anything... What a tragedy, Mr. Sharpe, what a tragedy...” Which was obviously a blatant lie, because I’d caught him by the side of the house, near the living-room window.’

  ‘The curiosity of neighbours is well known.’

  Roger Sharpe lit a cigarette. The flame from the lighter caused his signet ring to glint and was reflected in his pale blue eyes as they sought Simon’s:

  ‘I’d already told him the latest news when I ran into him early this morning. The man—the poor man, as you call him—is frightened out of his wits. What’s he afraid of? I don’t know, but he’s afraid of something, believe me.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the thought that one of his neighbours is a murderer?’

  ‘And so he comes snooping around here? No, it’s something else.’

  ‘What else did he say to you?’

  ‘I thanked him for his offer of help and he hastened to take his leave. I was accompanying him to the bottom of the drive when a car shot out of the darkness!’ He took Simon by the shoulder. ‘Come along, let me offer you a drink before you see Valerie. I need to talk to someone who isn’t a frightened old man or a woman at the end of her tether.’

  It was only when he was in the living-room, installed in one of the armchairs with a whisky in his hand, that Simon understood the significance of the phrase.

  ‘Have you ever seen a hysterical woman, Simon?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so.’

  ‘Then imagine three of them and you’ll get some idea of what happened here less than half an hour ago.’ He winced and changed the subject. ‘Is there any news from the investigation, by the way? It seems there was some doubt about the identity of the deceased?’

  Simon cleared his throat, asking himself just how much he could say without being caught in a lie later.

  ‘Yes, apparently. You know, in this kind of case, when the police are faced with a disfigured corpse, there are always questions. Luckily, we know what we’re dealing with now.’

  Roger blew a smoke ring which temporarily obscured his face:

  ‘Are you hot on the trail? Do you have a suspect yet?’

  ‘I’m not privy to the secrets of the gods,’ lied Simon. ‘I haven’t been assigned to the case, you know.’ Uncomfortable, he sat with his head down, sensing the conjurer’s knowing smile.

  ‘Emotions are running high,’ said the latter after a long silence. ‘Diane is in a terrible state. I would never have thought that Harold’s death would have affected her to such an extent. On the contrary, I’d have thought it would be a relief. So she loved him in spite of everything. Incredible. Don’t ever try to understand women.’ He stared at the glass in his hand, which he was shaking nervously. ‘After the meal tonight we came here, my two nieces, Diane and I. My sister had stopped crying, but her grief had turned into violent anger against Henrietta, who wasn’t bothering to hide her jubilation. There was a thunderous and unsustainable silence and then Diane went on the attack:

  ‘“Leave the room immediately, Henrietta.”

  ‘“Why should I? I’m comfortable here.”

  ‘“Stop smiling, then.”

  ‘“Why shouldn’t I smile if I feel like it?”

  ‘“Your father is dead and that’s how you react?”

  ‘“Yes, and you know full well how I feel.”

  ‘At that point, my sister could control herself no longer:

  ‘“You’re mad, my daughter, completely mad. There! Somebody had to say it!”

  ‘Valerie, trying to calm her mother down and, with every good intention, intervened:

  ‘“He was still our father, Henrietta. You could show a little respect, it’s true.”

  ‘“True that I’m mad?”

  ‘“No, no. Of course not, Henrietta.”

  ‘“So you both think me mad, the two of you.”

  ‘“Henrietta, you know your mother doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s still in shock.”

  ‘“I’m mad! Ha, ha, ha! I’m mad! Mad like Grandpapa, whom my father never stopped treating as a madman! Ha, ha, ha! And you saw what happened to him: dead! Just as Grandpapa predicted.”

  ‘You should have seen her at that moment, Simon. She wore a terrifying smile. Shivers went down my spine. Then suddenly she stopped laughing, her eyes became two shining slits and her voice became even more hoarse than usual:

  ‘“Grandpapa will return and you’ll see... He didn’t like being treated as a madman and he didn’t like to see me treated as a madwoman. He’ll be back soon...”

  ‘Valerie, fearful her sister would have a mental breakdown, went over to her side, thinking she was doing the right thing.

  ‘“Mama, I think you owe Henrietta an apology. After all, she has every right to smile if she feels like it.”

  ‘Her words had a disastrous effect on Diane. She shook from head to foot before letting out a gale of hysterical laughter. She was laughing and crying at the same time, on the verge of a breakdown. Then she got up and left the room. Before slamming the door behind her, she screamed at her two daughters:

  ‘“It’s you who Grandfather Theodore should be coming to see, you poor fools.”

  ‘The door slammed and the two sisters started to quarrel, each accusing the other of a lack of respect for either their father, their mother or their grandfather. They didn’t know what they were saying an
y more, hurling insults at each other. Valerie was the first to go up to her room. As for me, I was thunderstruck. I’d never seen them like that. Unimaginable! Furies! That was when I left the room to get some fresh air and ran into Colin Hubbard.’

  ‘Who had an orchestra view of the whole performance, I imagine,’ observed Simon.

  Roger nodded with a sigh:

  ‘You know, Simon, I get the impression the whole world is mad tonight. I’m surrounded by mad people.’ He lit another cigarette and slumped wearily back in his armchair. ‘You know I frequently perform “mind-reading” sessions. You also know that it’s not because of a gift I have, but a trick. Even so, one does become quite sensitive to people’s feelings and their worries. For example, when I hold someone’s hand and ask them questions, I can tell whether I’ve touched a sensitive chord by their breathing and their pulse. But it doesn’t stop there. I don’t know whether it’s a sixth sense or a heightened psychological awareness born from experience, but I can predict the way people are going to react... and I’m seldom wrong.’

  There was another silence. Simon looked round the heavily furnished room and thought for a moment. Then he asked:

  ‘So have you worked out who’s the murderer?’

  A strange look came into Roger’s eyes. Green flashes appeared in his blue eyes, communicating a burst of magnetic attraction which Simon, despite his attempts, could not avoid. It was as if X-rays were reading his deepest secrets. As if in a dream, he heard Roger’s answer:

  ‘No. But I sense evil. I sense danger, as if the killer will strike again.’

  And Simon, petrified, saw an Indian dagger pointing at him in the hand of the magician, who proffered:

  ‘It is I, the murderer!’

  Trapped in his armchair, Simon looked at the dagger being waved under his nose, sparkling in the light from the chandelier. Roger threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  ‘Forgive me, Simon, but when I saw the look on your face when you asked me if I knew who the murderer was, I couldn’t help playing that little trick. If you could have seen yourself! Admit it, you actually thought I was the killer.’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t have the time to think. In any case, you gave me the devil of a fright.’ He emptied his glass and coughed as tears came into his eyes. ‘So, are you a hypnotist as well?’

  ‘Yes, although I haven’t practised for a while.’

  ‘Has your power diminished in the meantime?’

  ‘On the contrary. I sometimes have difficulty in bringing my subjects out of their trance. There was one woman whom I almost failed to awaken. I stopped after that. Normally, it’s the weaker sex who are the best subjects, but you, Simon, would make a good one.’

  ‘I can be courageous if I want, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ replied the other with an amused smile. ‘I haven’t forgotten it was you who ended the killing spree which had the whole of London on edge. What did they call the fellow? Ah, yes, the Lonely Hearts Killer.’

  Simon stared at Roger Sharpe for such a long time he became nervous.

  ‘What’s the matter, Simon?’

  ‘You remind me of someone.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘If your hair was a different colour, you’d look just like the Lonely Hearts Killer.’

  Once again, Roger Sharpe broke into laughter.

  ‘Admit it. In your mind the killer of my brother-in-law and the Lonely Hearts Killer are one and the same: me.’

  Simon pretended to be downcast:

  ‘Alas! The Lonely Hearts Killer committed suicide, so you can only be your brother-in-law’s murderer.’

  ‘Too bad,’ replied Sharpe in the same tone. ‘And I had such a great alibi for last night. What a pity.’

  At that moment there was a knock on the door, which opened to reveal Gladys, looking anxious. As she went over to Roger she hesitated.

  ‘What is it, Gladys?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m very worried about madam, Mr. Sharpe. She’s gone to bed and asked me for a sleeping pill.’

  ‘She did the right thing. She’s in need of a great deal of rest, believe me.’

  ‘I know. But when I went to take them to her, she snatched the bottle out of my hands and refused to give it back, no matter how many times I asked.’

  Sharpe gave her a reassuring smile.

  ‘Don’t worry, Gladys. There’s no risk, those pills aren’t very powerful. Even if she swallowed the whole bottle she wouldn’t come to any harm. A very deep sleep at the worst.... Which she really needs. But you did the right thing by checking with me. Thank you.’

  Gladys wished them goodnight with the air of someone who had done her duty and left the room.

  Sharpe pulled a face:

  ‘I’m very worried about my sister.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you—.’

  ‘It’s not that, Simon. Those pills aren’t dangerous. I saw the doctor this morning. He wasn’t about to give any dangerous medicaments to a woman in a state of shock. No, it’s not that. I don’t know if Valerie already told you, but her grandmother—my mother—suffered from....’

  ‘Mental trouble. Yes, I know.’

  ‘Mental trouble,’ repeated Sharpe. ‘In fact, she finished her days in a...special institution.’

  ‘So it might be hereditary in Henrietta’s case?’

  ‘It’s not clear. According to the specialists, no. But some of them are crazier than their patients in my opinion. In fact it’s not Henrietta who worries me for the moment, it’s her mother. I’ve never seen her in such a state and I’ve never seen her let herself go like that. Never. And I never thought she felt that way about her husband. Frankly, I’m afraid she might be going the same way as our mother. Diane had the same look in her eyes as her mother did when she lost her mind. I’ll never forget that night. Our father had a passion for old locks. And often, after a long working day, he would spend hours playing with his treasures, taking them apart and putting them back together. He was so happy when he could rescue one which his customers were about to throw away. Little by little our poor mother took a dislike to them and, in a fit of jealous rage, she took a hammer to the whole collection.’

  ‘Your father was a locksmith, so that explains his passion,’ murmured Simon.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Nothing, excuse me.’

  The door opened again and Henrietta’s smiling face appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Good evening, Simon. Are you going to come and see me in my studio? I’ve something very important to show you.’

  ‘Yes, but—.’

  ‘See you soon, then.’

  The door shut.

  Sharpe sighed and picked up the whisky bottle to serve them both another glass, despite Simon’s sign of refusal. After which, as if a thought had suddenly struck him, he went over to the bar, half filled a glass with mineral water and placed it on the table.

  After a short silence he asked:

  ‘Tell me, Simon, do you think you can lock a window from the outside using a glass of water?’

  The young policeman sat still for a while, immersed in thought, then replied:

  ‘Frankly, no.’

  ‘That’s my opinion as well. The opinion of a professional, if I may say so. There are a lot of tricks you can play with water but, honestly, in this case I can’t see the slightest connection. And yet I feel sure that the solution to the locked room mystery Harold was preparing depended on a glass of water. I asked him that question several times and his only answer was an enigmatic smile. The glass of water. Even though it seems absurd, I’m sure it’s the key to the mystery. If only we could lay our hands on his notebook, dammit!’

  The truth is that Simon, in spite of all that he knew, was equally intrigued by the reason for the mysterious glass of water. He would have given a lot to discover its significance.

  After a lengthy silence he shrugged his shoulders, took a small sip of whisky and got up out of the armchair:

  ‘Right.
I’m going to see Valerie.’

  The conjurer, lost in thought, made a vague gesture of approval. Simon left the room. But before shutting the door behind him, he took one last look. Roger Sharpe, his head in his hands, sat contemplating the half-filled glass of water.

  14

  All Kinds of Shivers

  As he climbed the stairs, Simon asked himself a number of questions about his fiancée. On reaching the first floor, he walked along the corridor and hesitated in front of Henrietta’s room. What could she have to show him that was so important? Wouldn’t it be better to see Valerie first? No, better to get it over with right now. He knocked. A distant voice bid him enter.

  The room was plunged in semi-darkness, the only light coming from the window with the curtain half drawn. Simon crossed the room and drew it fully open. Henrietta was standing there behind her easel, paintbrush in hand. She turned to greet him, looking radiant, her long, black eyelashes fluttering with pleasure.

  ‘Come over here, Simon, and tell me what you think.’

  Alarm bells started to ring in Simon’s head, but he told himself he was being foolish: there was nothing to fear from his future sister-in-law. She was wearing a short blue housecoat which revealed her long, shapely legs. He noticed that the bottom button wasn’t fastened and hastened to avert his gaze. Her long black locks had tumbled over her shoulders and her eyes sparkled with excitement.

  Something told him he should leave, but he went towards her anyway, affecting a calm he did not feel. He noticed that the painting was almost finished. Even though he was stunned—the painting was of the crime scene—he tried not to show it. The macabre aspect of the scene had been exaggerated: the tablecloth and the victim’s clothes were spattered with blood; the silverware and the glasses shone too brilliantly in the light of the candles; thick smoke arose from the chicken... and in the background, emerging from what appeared to be fog, was the thin figure of an old man grinning in triumph.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ she demanded eagerly.

  Simon didn’t reply immediately. He searched for words which would be neither hurtful nor insincere, but appropriate nonetheless.