by Molly Thynne
He left it at that, but the inspector knew him well enough to take the hint. While the surgeon was making his examination he called up New Scotland Yard and got on to Shand. Shand listened to his report in silence.
“Give me ten minutes and I’ll be with you,” he said, when the other had finished.
He was as good as his word. The surgeon had barely finished his examination when Shand joined the little group gathered on the threshold of the porter’s room.
His eyes narrowed automatically as they fell on the distorted features of the dead man, but he made no comment. He was not entirely unprepared, however, for the surgeon’s verdict.
“Strangled?” he echoed. “Looks as if it might have been a fit.”
For answer the surgeon pointed to the man’s throat. On either side of it, below the ears, were two well-defined bruises. The swollen, blackened features and the protruding eyes spoke of asphyxiation.
“Strangled!” repeated Shand softly to himself. “He was found in a taxi, you said.”
The taxi-driver stepped forward.
“That’s right,” he said. “’E was all right enough when ’e and the other gentleman got in in Regent Street; that’s all I know.”
Shand turned on him sharply.
“There was another man, then. Where is he?”
“’E’s gone all right. Stopped the cab at the corner of Lifford Street and got out as cool as you please. ‘Drive to the Escatorial,’ ’e says. ‘You know where it is?’ And then I come on ’ere.”
“Was that all he said?” asked Shand.
“No, it wasn’t,” answered the taxi-driver irately. “Took me in proper, ’e did! Stood with the door in ’is ’and and talked to the chap inside, the cold-’earted devil! That was ’ow I didn’t suspect nothing. ‘Good-bye, old man,’ ’e says. ‘Don’t forget to let me know ’ow you get on.’ Then ’e goes off, carryin’ ’is ’at in ’is ’and, as cool as you please.”
“He was carrying his hat? Then you must have got a good look at him.”
“Oh, I see ’im all right. And I’d know ’im again, too. Slim sort of chap, not too tall, with very light ’air. I see it in the light from the lamp. Almost white it was.”
Shand’s memory switched suddenly back to the story of the steward on board the Enriqueta. Fair hair that might have been white, seen in the light of a lamp. That was his description of the man bending over Smith. And this man, too, had been strangled!
“Would you put him down as a foreigner?”
The taxi-driver hesitated.
“I don’t know as I would,” he said at last. “And yet, now you come to speak of it, ’e might ’ave been. Spoke very clear and precise like, but I didn’t notice no accent.”
“And he gave this address?”
“As clear as anythink. ‘You know where it is?’ ’e says to me.”
Shand cut him short or he would have gone over the whole scene again.
“Better see if there’s any one in the building who can identify him,” he said to the inspector. “The porter doesn’t know him, you say?”
“Never seen him before. He certainly isn’t one of the tenants. We haven’t searched his pockets, though.”
“Time enough for that later,” said Shand. “I’ll go through the flats while you’re getting the ambulance. Don’t move the body till I come back.”
While he was speaking he had stepped out into the hall. The sound of a woman’s voice made him turn suddenly, and he found himself face to face with Lady Dalberry. He recognized her at once, though he had not seen her since that day on the station platform at Liverpool.
She stopped as her eyes fell on the policemen and the little group of people behind them.
“Is there anything the matter?” she asked quickly, in her deep, rich voice.
Shand explained briefly that a man, apparently on his way to visit one of the flats, had died suddenly in a taxi and that he was anxious to get him identified.
“You would wish me to see him?” she said at once. “Where is this poor man? But it is not likely, you know, that any one would visit me at this time of night.”
Shand hesitated.
“I ought to warn you that it will not be very pleasant,” he said.
Lady Dalberry looked at him with a hint of contempt in her eyes.
“I am not a child,” she said simply. “Where am I to go?”
He led the way into the porter’s room. As he stood aside to let her pass in he glanced at her face. Her make-up, as usual, was heavy, but he had a suspicion that she had paled under her rouge, and the lines about her mouth had certainly deepened. It was an unpleasant ordeal for any woman, he reflected, especially for one who, not so long ago, had looked on the mutilated body of her husband. For the second time since he had first set eyes on her he found himself paying an unwilling tribute to her courage.
She bent over the body.
“No, he is not known to me,” she announced, as she straightened herself. “I have never seen him before.”
She seemed glad to get out of the little room, and Shand did not blame her. He escorted her to the lift. On the way she paused and turned to him.
“Miss Summers, who lives with me, is still out,” she said. “She will be coming in soon, but I am sure she does not know this man. Mr. de Silva, our neighbour, might be able to help you. He sometimes has visitors late in the evening.”
Shand thanked her and, having seen her on her way, went back to speak to the porter.
“I’d better begin with this floor,” he said. “You may as well give me the names of the tenants.”
“There are no flats on this floor,” the porter answered. “You’ll find nothing but the restaurant and kitchens here and some of the servants’ bedrooms. The flats begin on the floor above.”
Shand ran his eye down the names on the board in the hall, then he told the porter that he would not need him and got into the lift.
The boy stopped it at the first floor, but Shand told him to go on.
“On second thoughts, I’ll begin at the top,” he said, “and work down. I won’t keep the lift. It’s a job that will take some time, and I can use the stairs.”
“There’s only Lady Dalberry and Mr. de Silva on the top floor, sir,” volunteered the boy.
“Is this Mr. de Silva in?”
“I ain’t taken ’im down, not since I’ve been on duty.”
“They keep you up a bit late here, don’t they?” asked Shand sympathetically.
“The lift closes at twelve, and we take it in turns to do night duty, two nights a week, each of us. It ain’t so bad. If it ’adn’t been for ’im, down there, I should be off ’ome by now.”
“Long hours?” inquired Shand.
“Not so dusty. I didn’t come on till eight to-night.”
“The tenants of the flats can use the stairs, I suppose?”
The boy nodded.
“They mostly ring for the lift, though. Here you are, sir.”
As Shand pressed the bell of de Silva’s flat he glanced at the door opposite. The light still shone through the transom. Evidently Lady Dalberry had not yet gone to bed.
He waited for a minute or two, and then rang again. This time he heard a movement behind the door. He stood listening, his hand on the bell. He was just about to ring again when the door opened a few inches and a head appeared tentatively in the crack.
“Who’s there?” demanded the owner, with all the irritability of a man just roused from his first sleep.
“Mr. de Silva?” inquired Shand smoothly.
The door opened wide and revealed the Argentino, clad in a rather gaudy silk dressing-gown, his usually smooth hair ruffled and on end. Evidently he had come straight from his bed.
“That is my name. What do you want?” he said impatiently.
“I am an inspector of police,” said Shand briskly. “Sorry to disturb you, but I’m afraid I must ask you to come downstairs with me. A man has died suddenly in a cab on his way to these flats, an
d we are anxious to establish his identity. We have reason to believe he intended to call at this flat.”
He was watching the other keenly as he spoke. His last statement had been pure bluff, but he had his own reasons for wishing to confront de Silva with the man who lay in the porter’s room downstairs.
The Argentino stared at him perplexedly.
“It is very unlikely that he was coming to see me,” he said slowly. “I certainly was not expecting anybody. Of course, if you insist, I will come down.”
He glanced significantly at his attire. The dressing-gown had fallen open and the rich silk pyjamas beneath were plainly visible.
“Much obliged,” said Shand heartily. “Don’t bother about your clothes; there’ll be nobody about now but my men and the porter.”
De Silva drew the dressing-gown closer round him.
“Very well,” he said. “Just wait while I get my key.”
A moment later he joined Shand, and the two men made their way down the stairs together. De Silva took it for granted that the lift had stopped working, and Shand did not disabuse him. He was not sorry to have a few words with him out of range of the interested gaze of the lift-boy.
“You didn’t happen to see a man hanging round the flats earlier in the evening, I suppose?” asked Shand, trailing his red herring shamelessly.
De Silva stared at him.
“I haven’t been out of my flat since I came up from the restaurant about half-past eight. I was tired and went early to bed.”
Shand gave an apologetic laugh.
“I’m afraid I shall be unpopular all round to-night,” he confessed. “I don’t enjoy dragging people out of their beds, but I must find out where this man was going, if I can.”
“Well, I am not likely to be able to help you,” said the other shortly.
Shand led the way to the porter’s room. The ambulance had arrived, and the dead man had already been placed on the stretcher and covered with a blanket. As Shand drew this down, leaving the face exposed, he watched de Silva closely. He was not disappointed.
The Argentino was staring at the still figure on the stretcher with mingled surprise and horror.
“Do you know him?” asked Shand.
The Argentino nodded. He seemed genuinely shocked.
“I have known him slightly for a good many years,” he said frankly. “First in the Argentine, and then in London. He called himself Conyers, but …”
He stopped, as if he did not wish to say more.
“Not a very reputable character, eh?” suggested Shand. “Have you any reason to suppose that Conyers was not his real name?”
“None,” de Silva assured him. “And I should be very sorry now to say anything against him. Indeed, I know of nothing definite, except the fact that he was in very low water and had been trying to raise money.”
“When did you last see him?”
The answer came promptly enough.
“One day last week. He came to borrow money, and I was obliged to refuse him. I had lent him a small sum a short time before, on the strength of our acquaintance in South America, but, as I told him, I am not a rich man, and I could do no more for him. We parted on quite friendly terms. Indeed, it is very probable that he was coming to see me to-night to make another effort to persuade me. As far as I am aware, I was the only person he knew in this building.”
“Have you any idea what he did for a living?”
De Silva gave an expressive shrug of his shoulders.
“I should say that he lived by his wits, but I do not know. How did he die? An epileptic fit?”
“We shall know more about that at the inquest,” said Shand evasively. “Do you happen to know whether he was subject to fits?”
“I have never heard that he was, but, as I told you, I did not know him very well.”
“Could you tell me anything about his associates?”
De Silva shook his head.
“I know nothing about his private life. He got my address from a man I had done business with in the Argentine, and I only saw him on the two occasions he came here.”
Shand thanked him and let him go.
“That’s all for to-night,” he said to the inspector. “The ambulance men can come now. We’ve got all we’re likely to get.”
“He was giving it to us straight, I suppose?” queried the inspector, with a jerk of his head in the direction in which de Silva had gone. “He seemed a bit glib with his information.”
“He was right about the name, anyhow,” commented Shand thoughtfully. “He’s Eric Conyers right enough. I recognized him myself. It’s less than a week since he called on me at the Yard, poor chap.”
He stood looking down at the quiet figure lying on the stretcher.
“I say, Fletcher,” he said suddenly. “Do you sleep in your wrist-watch?”
“No,” answered the inspector, with an appreciative glint in his eye, “but there’s some that do, I understand. But then, I don’t wear a dandy little gold and platinum watch-bracelet like our foreign friend there.”
Shand nodded absently. He stood watching the ambulance men as they lifted the stretcher and edged it carefully through the narrow doorway.
“Are you coming?” asked the inspector.
Shand picked up his hat.
“Not at the moment,” he said. “I’ve got another job here first.”
He followed the stretcher into the hall, and arrived there just in time to meet Carol.
She had been seen home by Dalberry from the Savoy, where they had spent the evening, but they agreed that it would be wiser not to drive up to the door together, so she had dropped him at the corner of the street and come on alone to the Escatorial.
She was startled to see an ambulance standing at the bottom of the steps. Her taxi drew up immediately behind it and, seized with an indefinable sense of foreboding, she hurried into the hall to find herself confronted by the stretcher-bearers and their grim burden. It was completely covered by a blanket, and her apprehension increased at the sight of the shrouded form.
Behind the little group stood a man whose appearance struck her as vaguely familiar.
He stepped forward at the sight of her.
“Miss Summers, I think,” he said. “There is nothing to be alarmed about. There was an accident in the street and they brought the man in here.”
There was something comfortingly reassuring in his quiet voice and straightforward, steady eyes.
“Who is it?” she asked anxiously.
“Nobody connected with these flats,” he said. “I am sorry you should have come in just at this moment.”
He beckoned to the lift-boy, who was standing in the little group on the steps, watching the departure of the ambulance.
“Take Miss Summers up to her flat,” he said. “And see her in before you bring the lift down.”
Then, to her surprise, he drew her aside, out of earshot of the boy.
“I saw Mr. Mellish to-day,” he went on, in a voice so low that it only reached her ears. “He spoke to me about the state of things here. If you are in difficulties at any time, you have only to ring up this number and ask for me—Detective Inspector Shand of New Scotland Yard.”
He scribbled a number on a plain card and handed it to her, then, having put her in charge of the lift-boy, went on his way, leaving her with an added sense of security.
CHAPTER XIII
Mellish was lunching at his club two days later, when he was told that Miss Summers wished to speak to him on the telephone. Moving with surprising quickness for one of his ponderous build, he hurried from the dining-room, and, as he went, he blessed the foresight that had caused him to leave his address with Jervis whenever he was away from his rooms.
“Anything wrong?” he asked, before Carol had time to speak.
“Nothing to make a fuss over,” she answered. “But I’ve had rather a curious interview. I’d like to tell you about it.”
“Are you alone this afternoon?”
&n
bsp; “Yes. Aunt Irma’s lunching out and going on to a lecture. She said she probably wouldn’t be back to tea. I was wondering whether you could come round.”
“Is it urgent, or can I finish my lunch first? It’s a good lunch!”
The fat man’s voice was so plaintive that Carol laughed. “My poor dear! You can lunch as slowly as you like, if you’ll have your coffee here afterwards. I’ll make it for you myself and it will be good! That’s the one thing Aunt Irma has succeeded in teaching me.”
She was as good as her word, and Mellish told her so as they sat over their coffee and cigarettes in her little sitting-room at the Escatorial.
“I’m not sure that you won’t make an excellent wife to some one after all,” he concluded, as she refilled his cup. “Now, what’s it all about?”
Carol regarded him meditatively, a shrewd twinkle in her eyes.
“I suppose you’re picturing me as a placid matron in a lace cap, with a bunch of keys in a little bag,” she said appreciatively. “I think you must be what they call ‘a survival,’ Jasper dear.”
“I’d rather be a survival than an elderly clothes-peg with a henna top,” he retorted stoutly. “That seems to be the best this generation can do in the way of matrons, and the old men are worse. Stop flouting my grey hairs and tell me what excuse you’ve got for dragging me out of my peaceful and respectable club at this hour of the day.”
“You’ll apologize for that in a minute,” said Carol calmly. “I shouldn’t wonder if I was about to make your hair stand on end.”
She leaned forward impressively.
“You remember that night at the Terpsychorean?”
“Have I ever been allowed to forget it?” groaned Mellish. “Go on.”
“I don’t suppose you remember a couple who were dancing there. Captain Bond pointed them out to us.”
“Curiously enough, I do,” answered Mellish dryly. “I am also perfectly aware of the fact that the murdered man whose photograph has been in the papers for the last two days is the man we saw that night. I, too, read the Daily Press. Don’t behave like a writer of cheap detective fiction.”
Carol looked frankly disappointed.
“I didn’t suppose you’d noticed him at the club,” she said. “What a bore you are, Jasper, spoiling all my best effects. All the same, I will make you sit up and take notice! I met his dancing partner yesterday.”
