The Great Melbourne Cup Mystery

by Arthur W. Upfield

Knifed!

  The three men standing horror-stricken before the dead man propped naturally against the angle of meeting brick walls spun round when the gruffly put question fell on their ears.

  ‘What’s wrong here?’ demanded the uniformed policeman.

  ‘That man is dead, constable,’ Old Masters said, steadily.

  ‘Dead! How did he come by his death? D’you know?’ The questions were now barked. A flashlight was produced; its beam directed to the dreadful face plainly revealed now that the hat was all awry.

  ‘And who are you? What are you doing here?’

  ‘My name is Masters, officer,’ The policeman was proffered a card, which he accepted and read. ‘This is my son, Mr. Roy Masters, and this, Mr. Cusack.’

  ‘Not the owners of Olary Boy and Pieface?’

  ‘The same, officer.’

  ‘And you, sir? Are you the proprietor of the Masters store?’

  ‘The same. We were passing along Queen Street, and on impulse walked in here to view the rear of premises, the purchase of which we have been debating. Now, what are we going to do about the dreadful affair?’

  ‘Ring the C. I. B., Russell Street, for the patrol.’

  ‘Shall I do it?’ asked Roy, astonished by his father’s cool lying regarding the viewing of property for probable purchase.

  ‘Yes, please,’ assented the constable. Then, when he had gone: ‘Must be foul play. People don’t die naturally leaning against a wall and stay leaning against it. Wonder how he was killed. Don’t touch him.’

  The crowd in Queen Street passed the narrow entrance to the lane without suspecting the grim crime concealed by the small group waiting for the patrol car. Two men approached from the further end of the lane, examined the group with careless eyes, passed on into Queen Street.

  Roy returned after an absence of two minutes.

  ‘They’re coming,’ he said briefly.

  ‘It seems to me the bird has been dead some time,’ remarked the constable. ‘Queerest thing ever I struck. Looks like his overcoat was put on him after he was dead, too.’

  ‘Hug-hum! It’s a beastly business altogether,’ Old Masters said, regaining his former coolness. ‘Confound it! I suppose now our time will be wasted with an inquest. I’m confoundedly sorry, Roy, I consented to your wish to see the property.’

  Through the passing crowd they saw big, efficient men pushing their way. Reaching the entrance to the lane, one of them stopped to hold back the curious, who guessed what they were. The remaining three hurried to the group awaiting them.

  ‘What’s wrong, constable?’

  ‘Man dead,’ was the reply.

  A powerful torch aided the light from the distant electrics.

  ‘Dead all right. But what’s keeping him up? Any of you touched him?’

  ‘I lifted his hat to look at him,’ Dick said.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When we found him.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Several minutes ago. I should say about half a minute before the constable came along.

  ‘And that will be five minutes and about 15 seconds,’ added the constable, looking up from his watch.

  ‘Well, that makes it nine-ten p.m...’

  One gently pulled the man forward—and the dead man fell forward stiffly into the detective’s arms. He laid him down.

  ‘Why, he’s as stiff as a crutch,’ he gasped. ‘He wasn’t killed five minutes ago.’

  ‘No—and he didn’t prop himself against the wall to die comfortably from heart failure. Open up his overcoat.’

  ‘Hullo—he’s got two overcoats on. Ah—look! He was knifed over the heart. And to hide the blood on his grey overcoat the black coat was put on him.’

  ‘Yes, but only recently. After rigor mortis had set in. He was killed away from here hours ago. Must have been brought here and propped up against that wall.’

  ‘Looks like it,’ said he who appeared to be the senior. ‘Did you bring him here?’

  ‘Of course not What next?’ Old Masters burst out sarcastically. ‘D’you think I’ve got so much time on my hands I can waste some of it carting corpses about?’

  ‘Mr. Masters of the stores, Mr. Roy Masters and Mr. Cusack—they say they are,’ put in the constable. ‘Say they were down here looking at the back of some property they were thinking of buying. This is the card Mr. Masters senior produced.’

  The beam of the powerful torch was directed full into Old Master’s face.

  ‘So it is,’ a voice said behind the torch. The voice became more conciliatory. ‘This is a bad business, sir.’

  ‘I don’t need to be told that,’ Old Masters snapped. ‘The best thing to do now is to get in touch with the Chief Commissioner. If possible, I don’t wish to be dragged into it.’

  ‘I’m afraid that can’t be helped, Mr. Masters. A bit of bad luck. Is that your car at the kerb—a green single seater?’

  ‘No. It belongs to my son.’

  ‘Well, that seems to prove you didn’t sneak into the lane from the other end, bringing the dead man with you.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Roy put in. ‘I remember the owner of the tobacco shop on the right of the entry standing in his doorway. He might remember seeing us come here—without the burden of a dead man.’

  ‘All right—we’ll question him, as a matter of form. Hicks, ring headquarters for a photographer. Searle, you accompany these gentlemen to Russell Street and get their statements. Identification is unnecessary, because I recognise Mr. Masters.’

  Old Masters snapped and roared all the way to Russell Street, Dick and Roy offering but rare comment, and both marvelling at the old man’s determination to withhold the telephone conversation with a man named Hellburg—wondering at the reason why the information was withheld and utterly mystified by the whole affair. After being led to expect to find, or meet with a man named Leader, they had been confronted by the dead body of a man, who was quite a stranger to Old Masters.

  It happened that the Chief Commissioner and Old Masters were well known each to the other, both being members of the same club, although the latter had seldom visited it during the last few years. At the old man’s urgent call, the Chief Commissioner hurried to headquarters. Having received the patrol leader’s report, he said, gravely:

  ‘It is all most unfortunate for you.’

  ‘Of course it is! Hug-hum! Are we going to be dragged into this affair, Loxton?’

  ‘I can’t very well see how you can be kept out of it,’ the Commissioner replied reluctantly. ‘Still, perhaps you may be excused from a most unpleasant duty, but you, Mr. Roy and you, Mr. Cusack, will have to attend as having discovered the body.’ Then, with a smile, he added to Old Masters: ‘Don’t worry, Masters, we’ll leave the burden to younger and stronger shoulders.’

  Again on the road, headed for St. Kilda, Roy said impatiently:

  ‘Why did you keep back the real reason we went to that lane, Dad? That man Hellburg, or his associates, must have done it.’

  ‘They did it all right, Roy.’

  ‘But why did you keep back that information?’ pressed the younger man.

  ‘Because I don’t want to be asked about Hellburg. Because I don’t want to be asked how I came to know him. That other matter is dead and buried. I hope to goodness Leader has turned up in our absence.’

  ‘What do you think was the reason Hellburg told you where to meet Leader and then confronted us with a man not Leader; do you know?’

  ‘I don’t It beats me.’

  Conversation lapsed until they drew up before Old Masters’ house.

  ‘You boys come in and have a drink. We’ll talk things over.’

  Joyce opened the hall door to admit them.

  ‘Mr. Leader is in the library, sir,’ Joyce said with gratification in his voice. ‘He arrived only a few minutes after you left.’

  ‘Good. I think he’s lucky to be alive,’ growled the old man, leading the way along the deeply carpeted corridor. And as Joyc
e was busy hanging up overcoats and hats, it was Old Masters who opened the library door.

  ‘Well, Leader, what kept you?’ he demanded, as he entered the room. ‘Why—’

  He broke off suddenly, with a gasp as the others pushed by him, gazing at the figure before him. It was Roy who first realised the truth.

  ‘Good God—He’s dead!’

  21

  Too Old

  When Roy spoke again his voice was quite low.

  ‘Close and lock the door, Dick,’ he commanded, with more than a hint of his father’s brusqueness.

  A big, robust man with iron-grey hair and moustache was sprawled in a great lounge chair facing the door. He was dressed in a neat serge suit. For his size, his feet were small and were shod with high-grade shoes.

  ‘Is this your Mr. Leader?’ Roy asked, as they stood and stared at the motionless figure.

  Old Masters nodded. The twin horrors of this night appeared at last to have struck him dumb. Virility had departed from him, and his age became far more accentuated.

  ‘Look! The window is wide open,’ Dick pointed out. ‘And, see—someone has been rummaging in all the drawers.’

  ‘Touch nothing—nothing, Dick. Keep any valuables here, Dad? What about the safe?’

  Old Masters crossed to a wall tapestry, swept it aside to reveal the door of a compact steel safe wide open, the several drawers pulled out, their contents scattered about the floor of the alcove in which the safe rested.

  ‘Robbery!’ he said slowly—to add, as though it were an afterthought: ‘And murder. Two murders. I must think—I must think.’

  ‘We must allow others to do the thinking, Dad,’ Roy rapped out. ‘We must report this to the police at once.’

  The reply came slowly.

  ‘No—no! That we mustn’t do, Roy. They would want to know too much.’

  Roy swung round, wide-eyed, in amazement.

  ‘What? Here we have a burglar ransacking the room. Enter your man, Leader. He is killed by the burglar and the burglar escapes. Why, in the name of commonsense, mustn’t we call the police?’ he cried.

  ‘I don’t know—I don’t know, Roy,’ mumbled the older man. ‘It might be all as simple as you state—it might not Look here! You two young fellows go home. Leave this awful affair to Joyce and to me. We’ll bide our time—and later we’ll carry poor Leader some distance from the house and set him down for the police to find.’

  ‘But that’ll only make matters worse,’ Roy gasped, astounded by his father’s fantastic plan. ‘The thing’s been done here in your house, and it will have to be reported, Dad. The police have got to know about the telephone conversation you had with the man whose name you say is Hellburg. They’ve got to know just why we went to Ryrie Place. And they’ve got to be called here at once.’

  Old Masters was a pathetic caricature of the once stern, efficient and clear-headed business magnate. Two hours ago he had looked barely sixty years of age. Now he appeared to be verging on eighty. His hands trembled. His lips quivered. And into his eyes crept dull shadows of mental fatigue.

  ‘All right, Roy. I’ll leave it all to you,’ he stammered, in quavering tones. ‘It has been too much—too much. You telephone Roy—we’ll go to the dining-room for a drink and a smoke.’

  ‘Good! I feel gone in the knees, Mr. Masters,’ Dick said seriously. ‘Another shock like this, and I’ll go in the nut, too.’

  ‘Touch nothing here,’ Roy requested, as he unlocked and opened the door for the others to pass out.

  The butler was lurking in the passage.

  ‘Whisky, Joyce. In the dining-room,’ the old man ordered.

  ‘Yes, sir. And Mr. Leader?’

  ‘Do what you are told, Joyce, damn you,’ cursed the old man, who was showing signs of recovery again. He strode in ahead of Dick, his shoulders bowed, his body hunched forward.

  ‘I am too old for all this sort of thing Dick,’ he muttered, as they entered the dining-room. ‘Make it a stiff one, Joyce.’

  ‘Yes, sir, certainly.’

  ‘And after Mr. Cusack, have a drink yourself. You’ll be wanting it’

  ‘Thank you, sir, very much,’ the astonished butler concurred, with lifted eyebrows. ‘Mr. Leader—’

  ‘What time did Leader arrive?’

  ‘Well—you left, sir, at eight-thirty. It would be about twenty minutes to nine o’clock.’

  ‘When you showed him into the library did you enter the room yourself?’

  ‘No, sir. I didn’t show him to the library. He said I needn’t bother, because he had asked me and I had informed him I was taking supper, sir. I suggested refreshment, sir, and he declined. He said he would be busy tabulating his notes. But why, sir? Is there anything wrong?’

  Old Masters’ face was grim.

  ‘He’s dead, Joyce,’ was his brief answer.

  ‘Dead! Mr. Leader dead, sir?’

  The butler’s tone was that of a man dazed or incredulous.

  ‘Yes, Joyce,’ the old man said quietly, as he took a sip from his glass. ‘Yes, Leader is dead ... A cigar, you fool; and a match.’

  The butler’s hands visibly trembled when they held out the cigar box. They trembled a little more when he struck a match on the box. And then, his cigar alight, Old Masters patted the man’s black-coated arm, saying kindly:

  ‘Steady, Joyce—steady. Since we have been away the library has been burgled—and poor Leader has been murdered.’

  The butler’s lips drew outward.

  ‘Hellburg,’ he said.

  ‘It may not be—but I think it is, Joyce. But you’ll keep your opinion to yourself.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. Oh, Mr. Masters! My poor sister.’

  ‘You must go to her directly the confounded police have finished with us,’ Then to Roy, who had entered the room: ‘Well?’

  ‘They are coming, Dad. I rang up the Commissioner at his private house. He is coming too.’

  ‘Thank you, Roy. It was a good idea. I’ll be able to talk to him better than his policemen.’

  ‘I’m deuced sorry you’ve been dragged into this, old boy,’ Roy told Dick, who had been a curious spectator of the little act between master and man.

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Roy. I’m beginning to think I shall take an interest in this night’s work. Anyway, I’ve long promised myself a holiday.’

  ‘A fine holiday it well be,’ grunted Old Masters. ‘Joyce, go along to the hall and be ready to open to the police. If the cook and maids haven’t gone to bed, pack ’em off at once.’

  ‘They all have retired, sir.’

  ‘Feeling better, Dad?’ Roy asked.

  ‘Yes. I was knocked to pieces for a moment. Now listen, you boys. Don’t you mention to anyone about Hellburg ringing me up. You’ll allow me to say all that’s necessary to the police. You understand that?’

  ‘But to keep back ...’

  ‘I shall not keep back anything but Hellburg’s telephone message,’ said Old Masters, ‘or rather, I shall keep back Hellburg’s name. I must give the message itself. Ah—here they are,’ he added, as footsteps sounded outside.

  A moment later three plainclothes men were shown in by Joyce. The leader stepped forward.

  ‘Trouble here, sir? I am Sergeant Love.’

  ‘I am glad you’ve arrived. Roy, offer these gentlemen refreshment.’

  Of the three, only the sergeant accepted.

  ‘We were out this evening, sergeant, and during our absence ex-Detective-Sergeant Leader, who is in my employ, called on business. Knowing the run of the house, he did not trouble my butler to show him to the library. We returned at twenty minutes after ten, and on learning that Leader was in the library, we went to that room,’ Old Masters paused, and then continued. ‘We then discovered Leader in one of the easy chairs—dead.’

  The curt announcement visibly staggered the visitors. Trouble of some sort they had anticipated. Folk do not summon police for fun. But—this sounded like real trouble—and their leader’s expression
was grim as he said, gravely, ‘Dead, you say? Then we’d better have a look at him.’

  ‘Take them along, Roy, I will stay here.’

  Quite still, the old man and Dick listened to their retreating footsteps. They heard a door open, and quietly close. Dick crossed to the dining room door and closed that. When he returned he drew a chair beside Old Masters. Speaking, he was very serious.

  ‘This is pretty ghastly, Mr. Masters,’ he said. ‘Of course, Roy was right in yelling for the police. Yet, if it hadn’t been for his wise head I would have seconded your vote in taking Leader away and leaving the poor chap somewhere.’

  ‘We might have regretted it, Dick,’ Old Masters objected. ‘It was a panic suggestion, after all.’

  ‘Well, anyway, I want you to know that you can count on me at all times. This Leader—was he engaged on investigation work for you?’

  ‘He was. He was looking into the business of the doping of Olary Boy. And—mark me—the people behind that, and behind the killing of your horse and of Olary Boy, are Hellburg and his crowd.’

  ‘Oh! Then I’m mighty glad I decided to pull my weight. I am pretty sore about young Hurley and Pieface and I am sore, too, about Olary Boy. My thousand pounds were a lost bet and I never squeal; but Olary Boy would have won the Cup, and Roy would have been entitled to claim Diana.’

  ‘But you are in love with Diana, too, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dick looked down on the rug at his feet. After a little silence, he said: ‘Yes—I love Diana with all that’s in me. But we agreed, Roy and I. Pieface never had an earthly. Olary Boy was a certain winner when he collapsed. Had he lived half of one more minute, Roy could have claimed Diana. And, because I think Diana loves him now, she would gladly have accepted him. I never squeal at a fair and square gamble, but’ (and Old Masters noted the blazing blue eyes) ‘I am squealing now over Olary Boy not winning, because of dirty methods. Which is—’

  ‘There is a ring on the telephone, sir. Shall 1 put it through?’ asked Joyce suddenly from the doorway.

  Old Masters nodded, Joyce disappeared. Old Masters lifted the receiver against his ear, and the next instant Dick saw his body tense.

  ‘Mr. Masters?’ queried a soft voice.