Death of a Beauty Queen

by E. R. Punshon

  ‘I was glad to see the two of them keeping out of mischief,’ Paul Irwin interposed now. ‘Young Maddox had a key of his own, and used to let himself in and out as he liked. Both of them learnt how to use tools. They did some good work up there – quite first class.’

  Mitchell turned to him.

  ‘Mr Irwin,’ he said, ‘your son has been frank and open with us. Don’t you think it would be wise if you were to reconsider your own attitude? If you continue to refuse to answer questions, you must not be surprised if we put our own interpretation on your silence?’

  ‘I have nothing to say,” answered Mr Irwin once again, and then there came, suddenly and rather startlingly, a knock at the door; so absorbed had they been in question and answer, that quiet knock made them all start.

  ‘It’ll be Mrs Knowles. She can’t stand it any longer. She’s wondering what’s happening,’ Mr Irwin said. ‘My housekeeper,’ he explained to Mitchell. ‘She came to me from a friend three years ago, when he left London, and Miss Temple, who had been with me since before my wife died, felt she was getting too old for the work.’

  ‘Have you other servants?’ Mitchell asked.

  Only a daily woman,’ Paul answered, and went across to open the door.

  An elderly woman, in a dressing-gown, was standing there. Paul told her everything was all right – they wanted nothing – she must go back to bed. She said something about Mr Leslie, and Leslie got up and joined them, saying loudly:

  ‘It s all right; they’ve only come to run me in for murdering Carrie, only they aren’t quite sure.’

  Left alone for the moment, the three police officers waited, and Penfold leaned across and said to Mitchell, in a growling whisper:

  ‘What do you think the old ’un’s holding back on us? There’s something.’

  ‘Shouldn’t wonder,’ agreed Mitchell, and added: ‘He looks older than you said, I think. I should take him to be fifty at least.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Penfold. ‘It must have been the light, or something. I can generally tell a man’s age pretty near, but he does look older now than I thought before. I thought his hair was all black, too, but there’s streaks of grey showing if you look close. Don’t know how I missed them before.’

  The two Irwins, father and son, having pacified their housekeeper, came back into the room. Mitchell asked a few more questions of but small importance, and told Leslie that the statement he had made would be written out and brought to him for signature. He added that probably they would have to question him further, but that considering the lateness of the hour they wouldn’t trouble him any more just then.

  With that they took leave, and, as they were making their way to the waiting car, Mitchell said:

  ‘I almost believe that boy was planning to elope to Hollywood with the girl. Only it seems he has no money, and then Maddox claims she got engaged to him only this afternoon. A pretty tangle to find out where the truth lies.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Discussion on Inconsistencies

  It was when they were all three safely in the car that Penfold’s smouldering indignation burst forth.

  ‘I tell you what it is, sir,’ he said angrily, to Mitchell. ‘Old Mr Irwin knows something he doesn’t mean to tell. Deliberate concealment.’

  ‘Yes, that’s pretty plain,’ agreed Mitchell.

  ‘Defeating the ends of justice,’ declared Penfold. ‘He ought to be made–’

  ‘Difficult,’ observed Mitchell, ‘to make a man speak when he doesn’t want. Once upon a time they used to put him on the rack, and then he probably told lies; or else tie him down on the floor and pile fresh weights on his chest every day, and then he generally died first.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said, a little doubtfully, Penfold, who had. never heard before of the peine forte et dure.

  ‘Because,’ explained Mitchell, ‘if he didn’t talk, then he couldn’t be found guilty, and, if he wasn’t found guilty, then his property couldn’t be confiscated, and his wife and family kept it still. Rummy what a man will do for his wife he spends half his time quarrelling with, and for his children he’s on bad terms with because they won’t do just what he thinks they ought.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Penfold, thinking this over, and Bobby, quicker to discern what was in Mitchell’s mind, said:

  ‘You mean, Mr Irwin’s silence is his way of protecting his son?’

  I’m told,’ Mitchell said without answering this directly, ‘Mr Paul Irwin is a very religious man. Is that right, Penfold?’

  ‘Well, sir, if you ever heard him preaching about hell on Brush Hill Common, you would think so,’ Penfold answered. ‘Seems to think that’s where we’re all bound.’

  ‘Perhaps, then, with ideas like that,’ Mitchell went on, ‘he won’t actually lie, but thinks he has a right to keep silence. Nothing in the Bible against holding your tongue.’

  ‘Then he knows young Irwin killed the girl?’ Penfold cried excitedly.

  ‘He may think he knows it,’ Mitchell answered slowly. ‘But then he may be wrong all the same. Religious people of the Paul Irwin kind are so jolly sure all the rest of us are vile sinners they’re always ready to believe the worst – of other people. Vile sinners are evidently quite likely to be guilty of anything going.’

  ‘You think Leslie may be innocent, even though his father believes him guilty. Is that it, sir?’ Penfold asked, after he had considered this in silence for some moments.

  ‘Yes. But then Paul Irwin may not think – he may know. It’s quite on the cards Leslie is the man we want. It all looks like what the papers call a love drama. Leslie says he and the girl understood each other and had it all fixed up. But that may be only what he thought himself. Maddox says she was engaged to him. Sargent says she had turned young Leslie down. My own idea is she was keeping all three on the string, and very likely one or two more as well. But suppose she did say something to Sargent about turning down Leslie, and Leslie hears about it and goes off in a rage to have it out with her – won’t be played with any longer, sort of feeling. She laughs at him. Perhaps she slips in a word, as women can, that gets him under the skin. He loses his head, as passionate youngsters in love will at times, and lets fly with the knife. Then he bolts in a panic. His father and Sargent see him leaving the room. Mr Irwin doesn’t like the looks of it. He gets rid of Sargent, has a look, sees the girl on the floor. Drops his hat on a chair, while he has a closer look to make sure, and forgets it’s there – a shock, of course. And then, instead of giving the alarm, he goes off home to find his boy and warn him. He won’t lie about it, against his principles. But he’ll hold his tongue till kingdom-come.’

  ‘If you ask me,’ grumbled Penfold, ‘I would just as soon think it was the old man himself did it. He wanted to save his son. He was bitterly opposed to any marriage with the girl – looked on it as ruin for the boy, ruin in this world and the next. Quite sure of that, because, as you said, Mr Mitchell, sir, that kind of religious type is always so sure what’s good for other people.’

  ‘We’re always, all of us, jolly sure of that if of nothing else,’ murmured Mitchell, but Penfold swept on unheedingly:

  ‘He knew more than Leslie thought, and the Birkbeck lecture stunt didn’t take him in for a minute. So he had a look in at the Central Cinema, and there the young man was all right. Shock number one. Then he saw Leslie at the door of the girl’s room, either just going in or just coming out. Second shock. He’s pretty wrought up by now, and he barges in on the girl to tell her what he thinks. She snaps her fingers at him, tells him she has the boy nailed, and that’s that, and, what’s more, they’re off to Hollywood together as soon as they can get the coin that very likely the young man could raise on his expectations. The old man thinks Hollywood and hell are much the same. There’s only one way of saving Leslie. He takes it and goes home, and, if you ask me, what it all amounts to is just this – he admits he did it, and what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘His hat was in the room,’ Mitchell admitted
. ‘Many a man has hung on less evidence.’

  ‘It’s religion does it,’ declared Penfold, pleased to think Mitchell was coming round to his point of view. ‘Once a man’s got religion, he’s capable of anything.’

  ‘Like Habakkuk,’ murmured Bobby, but neither Mitchell nor Penfold, neither of whom had studied Voltaire, took any notice, Mitchell continued:

  ‘I think it’s more likely Mr Irwin is protecting his son rather than himself. If it was himself, I should expect him to say so. He might possibly persuade himself he had a right to kill, but, if he did, he wouldn’t attempt to hide it. At least, I don’t think so, but that’s psychology, and the only sure thing about psychology is that it always works the way you don’t expect. Then, again, he may not really suspect his son, but feel that his evidence would throw unjustified suspicion on the boy, and so he won’t give it. Anyhow, we’ve no case, so far, to put to Treasury counsel. They would shoot it full of holes at once – lots of points to be cleared up yet.’

  ‘For instance,’ suggested Bobby, ‘about who it was the girl was actually encouraging?’

  ‘If you ask me, the whole boiling,’ put in Penfold.

  ‘Maddox claims an engagement, and seems actually to have bought a ring,’ Mitchell observed thoughtfully. ‘That must be checked up on. Then young Irwin claims an understanding, and the Hollywood idea he says they talked about is just the thing to attract a girl like Carrie Mears. Mr Sargent admits to a flirtation that may have gone further than he says. He is evidently uneasy about it, and I don’t like his story about her having been forgotten when accommodation was arranged for the competitors, so that she had to be pushed into his private office as a last resource. I think that all sounds as if it had been fixed up before. Perhaps only for the chance of a kiss or two on the sly, but perhaps for other reasons. There’s that missing handbag to explain, and there seems no reason why either of the Irwins should have taken it.’

  ‘Could that be Sargent?’ Penfold asked.

  ‘Someone took it, apparently,’ Mitchell said. ‘Why? It doesn’t seem likely there was anything of great value in it – not money or jewellery, I mean. But there must have been some reason why it was worth taking. We know Sargent had been taking Miss Mears out to dinners and so on. Most likely, then, he had been writing her letters, and letters he wouldn’t want other people to see. Suppose she was doing a spot of blackmail – probably not so much for money as for getting a start on the films. You can imagine her saying: “Get me an engagement with a good film company, or what about those letters of yours?” Suppose that, as is very likely, she thought him much more influential than he really is, and he simply hadn’t it in his power to do what she wanted, but she wouldn’t believe it, and told him straight out she was going to make use of his letters in a way he wouldn’t like. He arranges for her to have a room to herself so they can talk unobserved. He makes a final appeal to her to let him have the letters back. She says, my engagement first, or – He loses his temper, and his head. The knife’s handy, and he uses it. He goes off with the handbag, and when Paul Irwin discovers what’s happened, he either really suspects Leslie or feels his evidence would go against the boy. So he makes up his mind he won’t say anything. All that’s only theory, of course, but if anyone else than Sargent is put in the dock, it’s a theory defending counsel will exploit, and one we’ll have to be ready to answer. So it has got to be tried out as best we can.’

  ‘There’s that finger-print of the other girl on the knife that was used. How is that to be accounted for?’ Penfold asked.

  ‘That’s difficult, too,’ Mitchell agreed. ‘It’s not enough to prove her guilt, but it is enough to prove almost anyone else innocent – unless we can account for it. And, of course, there’s the story of the trick played on Miss Ellis – her own admission of the anger she felt, and die history of some sort of violent temper and knife-flourishing she had shown previously. Only what about the handbag again? No reason why Miss Ellis should have taken it.’

  ‘There’s the photographer, too – Beattie, I mean,’ observed Penfold.

  ‘Yes, we mustn’t forget him,’ Mitchell said. ‘It was he who made the discovery; no bloodstains found, except on him; he admits to having felt strongly about the trick played on Miss Ellis, and to having gone to ask Miss Mears about it. Well, there you are, a plausible case against half a dozen of ’em, but nothing conclusive, and the case against each in turn proving the innocence of all the rest. Talking of bloodstains, Ferris had better make as thorough a search as he can to-morrow of the Irwins’ house, just to see if he can find anything.’

  ‘That will give them time to get rid of anything incriminating,’ Penfold pointed out. ‘Oughtn’t we to act at once?’

  ‘They had plenty of time before we got there to do that,’ Mitchell answered. ‘A little delay may give them time to grow careless, perhaps. Ferris had better check up on their tailor’s bills, and see if any suits or trousers are missing, and have a look in the dustbin, too, to see if anything of that sort has been burnt recently. Another point to be cleared up is that story about the suspicious-looking character said to have been asking for a, Miss Quin who wasn’t there. There’s just the chance he was a crook on the prowl, asking for someone by name as a blind, but really wanting to get admission to see what he could pick up. It might be that Miss Mears caught him in the act of lifting her handbag, that she tried to give an alarm, and he – silenced her. Not likely of course – sneak thieves seldom commit murder. But we must have that door-keeper up at the Yard and see if he can identify any of our collection of photos. People can sometimes recognise where they can’t describe. The picture in their mind is clear enough, but they can’t put it into words. Of course, if it was like that, then the handbag being missing is accounted for at once. Plenty of promising lines to follow, if only they didn’t all contradict each other.’

  ‘Speaking of contradictions, sir,’ observed Bobby, who, as befitted his junior rank, had been silent during most of this discussion. ‘I thought there were one or two inconsistencies in the story Mr Maddox told. I made a note of two.’

  ‘I noticed two myself,’ observed Mitchell. ‘What were your two?’

  Bobby handed over his notebook, and Mitchell nodded approvingly.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Not very important, perhaps, but you never know. They must be checked up on.’

  ‘Meaning,’ asked Penfold, ‘that both Maddox and young Irwin say they are engaged to her?’

  ‘No, that’s not an inconsistency, that’s a contradiction,’ answered Mitchell. ‘Owen means–’

  He showed the inspector Bobby’s notebook, but Penfold did not seem impressed.

  ‘Don’t see they amount to much,’ he said.

  ‘The first is pure psychology – always deceptive, psychology,’ Mitchell admitted. ‘Young Irwin confirmed, though. The second might be merely a guess – a thing taken for granted. Interesting points, both. To-morrow – this morning, I mean,’ he added, with a rueful glance at his wrist-watch, ‘Ferris and Owen had better call at Miss Mears’ address and make a thorough search of her room. There may be letters – there should be some from Sargent. If they are there, that washes out the idea that they might have been in the missing handbag. You can check up, too, on Maddox’s story of his buying an engagement-ring this afternoon – I mean yesterday afternoon,’ he corrected himself with another, and even more rueful, glance at his wrist-watch. ‘Oh, and, Owen, try to make an opportunity to have a confidential chat with Miss Mears’s aunt. She may have more to tell than she thinks. Tell Ferris to let you handle that end – you being young and beautiful, while Ferris is neither. But don’t tell him I said so,’ Mitchell added hastily, ‘or his feelings might be hurt.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Engagement-Ring

  Bobby’s rest that night consisted solely of a bath and a shave. So refreshed, he settled down to his notes, and then, on his way to headquarters, where he was due at noon, he called at that Regent Street shop where Maddox sa
id he had bought the engagement-ring given to the murdered girl.

  The assistant, to whom Bobby introduced himself and explained his errand, remembered the transaction perfectly.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘That’s all right. We’ve got it. The gentleman can have it any time he likes to call.’

  ‘Got it?’ repeated Bobby, puzzled. ‘I mean an engagement-ring – seed pearls and a small diamond – Mr Maddox bought–’

  * That’s right,’ interrupted the assistant. ‘One of my own sales – five pounds, it was. Thought I was going to bring off something good at first. He was wearing one himself – a ring, I mean; fine sapphire, worth fifty pounds of any man’s money – and when a gent, wearing a fifty-pounder piece, comes in and asks for an engagement-ring, you do expect him to splash a bit.’

  ‘I suppose you do,’ agreed Bobby thoughtfully, remembering that young Leslie Irwin had used the same expression in speaking of Maddox as liking to ‘splash his money about.’

  ‘Wasn’t even,’ pursued the assistant, ‘as if he were shy about it – some of ’em pretend it’s for a friend, you know, or some other fairy-tale, but you can always tell – they give themselves away every time. Makes it easier in a way; you can say right out: “Can’t be mean or stingy on an occasion like this,” and then they generally fall for anything in reason you care to sell ’em. But this gentleman – Mr Maddox, you said? – he wasn’t like that. Said right out it was for the young lady he had just got engaged to. He looked the sort that’s ready to spend, too. Generally I can tell ’em at sight. There’s something about the man that looks twice at a shilling before spending it quite different from the man who’ll throw a pound note down and never notice hardly – different in the way they wear their hats or carry their gloves. Goes deep, it does; and I always thought I could tell which was which at a glance. Well,’ confessed the assistant, with the smile of the man contemplating the ridiculously impossible suddenly become fact. ‘I was wrong. Just clean wrong,’ he repeated, savouring the rare, the incredible, strange experience. ‘Showed him a fifty-hundred range first of all, thinking to lead him on. He wasn’t interested. Showed him a ten-twenty range next. He asked for something cheaper. As near as nothing I advised him to go to Woolworths. I got out a five-ten range instead, hoping to shame him. Believe me, or believe me not, he took one of the fivers.’