Death of a Beauty Queen

by E. R. Punshon

  ‘There’s one thing to remember,’ Mitchell said. ‘Leslie Irwin was probably innocent of murder, but equally probably guilty of forgery. And most likely his father knew it.’

  Bobby came back, accompanied by the doctor. He applied some simple remedies, saying he thought it was no more than a faint. Soon Paul began to show signs of recovering.

  ‘He’ll be better soon,’ the doctor said. ‘It’s just the result of shock and strain. But I don’t think he ought to be left alone to-night.’

  ‘We’ll get him to come along with us,’ Mitchell said. ‘We’ll make him as comfortable as we can.’

  ‘Meaning you are going to arrest him?’ the doctor asked. ‘You know, that poor boy upstairs... with that wound he could easily have done it himself.’

  ‘We’ve just found a small automatic in Mr Irwin’s pocket,’ Mitchell explained. ‘One cartridge has been fired. I think, for his own sake even, we must keep him under observation for the present. But we’ll do our best to make him comfortable.’

  Paul himself raised no difficulty. He was still weak and dazed, and quite passive in their hands. The doctor, who seemed a little anxious in spite of his reassuring words, undertook to go with him and to make him up a soothing draught.

  ‘He wants a good sleep,’ the doctor explained. ‘Sleep and rest, they’ll make all the difference.’

  They went off together, in the care of one of the Scotland Yard men, who had private instructions on no account to let Mr Irwin out of his sight, and when they had gone Mitchell turned again to a close examination of the pistol found in Paul’s pocket.

  ‘I wonder where he got it from,’ Mitchell mused. ‘Where’s Penfold? Oh, there you are. Penfold, do you know if either of the Irwins held a firearms licence, or had ever applied for one?’

  Penfold thought not, but went to the phone to make inquiries. He came back to say that no licence had ever been issued to either of the Irwins, or, so far as was known at the moment, had any application been made. He added that while he was at the phone the report had come through that Mr Greggs had just been brought in by Sergeant Jones, that he had already acknowledged that his correct name was Quin, that he seemed in a frightened and communicative mood, and was he to be detained for examination?

  ‘He is,’ said Mitchell emphatically. ‘All happening at once now, isn’t it? Tell them I’ll be along as soon as I possibly can.’ He was still examining the pistol, now with the help of a strong magnifying glass. ‘There are some scratches here,’ he said. ‘Look to me like initials. Looks to me like “C.M.”.’

  ‘“C.M.”,’ repeated Ferris. ‘“C.M.” But that’s–’

  ‘Have a look yourself. See what you make of it,’ Mitchell said. ‘Claude Maddox’s initials,’ he remarked.

  ‘Can it be his? Perhaps Mr Irwin got hold of it from him,’ Ferris suggested. ‘“C.M.” is what it looks like all right.’

  ‘We shall have to see if he identifies it,’ Mitchell observed. ‘If it belongs to him, though, how does it come in? How does he come in for that matter?’

  ‘Can it be Claude Maddox did the shooting?’ Ferris asked. ‘Mr Irwin knew his son was dead, and yet he had been out of the house and was coming back when we saw him. Do you think he knew Maddox did it, and had been out looking for him?’

  ‘Anyhow, only one cartridge of that clip has been fired,’ observed Mitchell. ‘All the same, we’ll go round to Maddox and see what he has to say. But, first, you had better ring him and make sure nothing more has happened there, since so much seems to be happening to-night. Don’t let them know it’s a police inquiry. Just ask if Mr Claude Maddox is at home, and if there’s any truth in a rumour he met with an accident to-night.’

  Ferris went off on this errand, and then Bobby appeared. He had been otherwise occupied, and had only just heard of the discovery of a pistol marked with what were believed to be the initials of Claude Maddox. Thereon, remembering his meeting on Sunday night with Leslie Irwin, and how he had seen him leaving the Maddox residence, he came to tell his story to Mitchell, repeating it now with an emphasis on some details that he had not at the time thought necessary for his report.

  ‘It strikes me as possible now, sir,’ he explained, ‘that Leslie Irwin knew Maddox possessed an automatic, and had been to his house in an attempt to get hold of it – and had succeeded.’

  ‘If that’s so,’ observed Mitchell, ‘that makes it look like suicide again.’

  ‘That’s my idea, sir,’ Bobby said. ‘That night Leslie was in a very excited, hysterical sort of mood. I think one thing coming on top of another has been too much for him. There was the murder of the girl he was in love with just when he thought he had made sure of her, and then he knew he was suspected, and yet couldn’t clear himself without confessing to the forgery by which he had got that £200. He felt that was bound to come out, and he couldn’t face up to the idea of owning he had forged his father’s name.’

  Bobby paused, and said slowly, though more to himself than as continuing to urge his theory upon his superior:

  ‘He had no trust in his father’s love; he did not believe he could be forgiven...’

  They were both silent for a little, and then Mitchell said:

  ‘Your idea is that Leslie shot himself?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I think, too, it is just possible he in his turn suspected it was possible his father had killed Carrie Mears. I imagine that idea was in his mind. I think he knew there was not much his father wouldn’t have done to stop him from marrying Miss Mears, and I believe that thought was in his mind all the time he was watching Mr Irwin’s hair going white with every hour of the day. Most likely he got the automatic that night I saw him, and, when the strain got too much, he broke under it and took what he thought was the best way out. When Mr Irwin discovered to-night what had happened, he picked the pistol up and put it in his pocket. The shock would be so great he hardly knew, very likely, what he was doing. He wandered off out of the house, and then he saw us arrive and he came back, still in the same dazed condition.’

  Mitchell was evidently thinking deeply.

  ‘It’s very likely that’s how it all happened to-night,’ he agreed, but, if Leslie Irwin suspected his father was the murderer, I’m wondering if he was right. I’m wondering if that’s what really happened, and if it is really Paul Irwin who killed Carrie Mears to save his son from marrying her.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mr Quin Talks

  It was with a certain relief that – their work completed so far as was possible for the time; the body removed to the mortuary of the unfortunate Leslie, who so soon had followed to the grave the girl whom he had loved; a constable placed in charge of the house – they left behind the scene of this new tragedy.

  Mitchell, indeed, paused and looked back as they came to where their car was waiting for them. For a moment or two he stood still, staring, as though he challenged it, as the dark indistinguishable shadow in the night to which now the house had shrunk.

  ‘More may be coming,’ he muttered to himself, and to Bobby, too, it seemed that the building stood there, tall and straight and silent, like some sentinel of evil, bearing witness of ill to come. Even Ferris felt something of the same influence, as of threat or menace that its dark loneliness seemed to throw out.

  ‘Just as well we didn’t leave the old man there,’ he said. ‘Or most likely he would have done himself in before morning – enough to make anyone want to finish up.’ As the car started, he added to Mitchell: ‘I phoned them your special instructions that Mr Irwin was to have every care and attention, but I couldn’t quite say myself whether he was under arrest or detained for inquiry or what.’

  ‘Well, I suppose chiefly the last, so far,’ answered Mitchell. ‘I don’t see my way very clearly at present.’

  ‘No denying it looks bad,’ Ferris went on, half to himself. ‘Finding that automatic in his pocket the same way we found his hat in the room where Carrie Mears was. That would weigh a lot with any jury.’


  ‘So far as this business to-night is concerned,’ Mitchell said slowly, ‘I’m inclined to think it was suicide. There’s Owen’s evidence that he had been to Maddox’s on Sunday, and it seems likely he got the pistol there. There is motive: the shock of the girl’s death; his knowledge he was suspected and couldn’t clear himself without confessing forging his father’s name; his dread of his father mixed up with another fear that it was his father himself killed the girl to stop their marriage; the emotional effect of watching the old man’s hair turning white and not being sure of the cause. I don’t think it’s much wonder he crashed in the end. It’s all such a tangle of love of father and son, love of boy and girl, doubt, fear, suspicion, theft, murder, all together. But what I would like to know – what’s worrying me is, was the boy on the right track if he really believed his father killed Carrie Mears?’

  ‘Miss Perry told us how afraid the old man was his boy would turn out like the grandfather,’ Ferris remarked. ‘And once a man gets religion, especially when it’s fear that drives him to it, well, anything may happen.’

  ‘You mean,’ corrected Mitchell gently, ‘when he thinks he has got religion, and made his God from it, instead of his religion from his God.’ After a time, he added: ‘After all, there’s no real evidence except opportunity and a possible motive, plus a hat.’

  ‘Men have hung for less,’ grumbled Ferris, ‘and what made his hair go the way it did?’

  ‘Can’t put that into the witness-box,’ Mitchell said, and then, after a pause, both his seniors being silent, Bobby said:

  ‘I remember once hearing Maude Royden say, in a sermon, that when a member of her congregation came to her and said: “God is telling me to do something,” her first thought was always: “Now what crime or folly are you going to commit?”’

  ‘It works that way sometimes with some people,’ Mitchell agreed. ‘It’s so easy to take your own wishes for divine – and so convenient, because then you know you’re right, you and God against the world. If it got to be like that with Paul Irwin, the whole thing’s explained. Only, was it? What do you think, Owen?’

  ‘I think it might be that, sir,’ Bobby answered, ‘though I hate the idea. Only, religion is such a big force, it may twist you almost any way.’

  ‘Perhaps because it was always fear that was behind him, and fear is only another word for weakness,’ Mitchell mused. ‘I hope this fellow Quin will be able to tell us something.’

  ‘My experience of religious folk,’ commented Ferris, ‘is that there are some of them who are always sure they’re right, and never are – like my mother-in-law,’ he added, somewhat bitterly – ‘and some who are never sure they’re right, but generally are.’

  ‘You’re saying the same thing as I did in another way,’ Mitchell told him. ‘I don’t like religion in murder cases – complicates things so. Here we are. We’ll have to see what Quin can tell us, and then it’ll be us for knocking Claude Maddox out of bed to see if he can identify that automatic – he won’t like being disturbed so late one bit, but I think we are going to do it all the same.’

  Bobby knew Mitchell well enough to be fairly sure that this determination not to wait for the morning to get the automatic identified had some deeper reason than a mere impatience. He wondered if it had anything to do with the cable Mitchell had spoken of, since, so far as Bobby knew, no one connected with the case, except Claude Maddox, had ever lived abroad. As they were alighting, he managed to bring in some reference to this cable, and Mitchell looked at him.

  ‘Don’t mind asking questions, do you?’ he observed, with a touch of rebuke in his voice. ‘Well, yes, it came all right, but what it’s worth now this has happened, I’m not so sure.’

  They all went into the inner office, where Quin was waiting, with the evening paper, a good cigar, and a glass of whisky and soda – all thoughtfully provided by the station sergeant. With the appearance of Mitchell he seemed inclined to put himself more upon the defensive, but Mitchell knew well how to handle such moods. Mr Quin had heard of this fresh tragedy? No? Mitchell described it briefly, enlisted the other’s sympathy and interest, and then went back to the earlier case. Not that Mr Quin was to imagine he was under arrest in any way. But he was known to have been on the spot when the murder occurred, and his inquiry for a Miss Quin must be taken to have referred to the victim. Further, the missing handbag had been traced to his possession, and it was known that he had returned a certain ring to the shop in Regent Street from which it had been purchased. In his own interests, therefore, it might be desirable for him, if he wished to do so, to furnish his no doubt satisfactory explanations that it was hoped would throw also light on this new tragedy. Naturally he was quite free to consult a solicitor before making any statement, or he would be perfectly within his rights if he preferred to say nothing at all, but in that case Mitchell feared it would be necessary to detain him in custody while further inquiries were made. If, however, he wished to make a statement, Sergeant Owen, an expert shorthand writer, would take it down in his own words.

  Quin, who by now had admitted that that was his correct name and that Greggs had been adopted in the hope of avoiding the too-pressing attention of certain creditors, interrupted with the assurance that he was only too willing and eager to tell everything he knew. It had all been troubling him greatly. More than once he had been on the point of coming forward to tell what he knew. But then he had an innate dislike for all kinds of notoriety or publicity, or for any attempt to push his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Besides, he was engaged in certain very important and delicate business negotiations that might be prejudiced by any association of his name with a notorious murder (incidentally these important and delicate negotiations proved to be a somewhat hopeless attempt to float a company to engage in pearl fishing off the Australian coast). And, thirdly, it did happen that certain unreasonable people who considered that he owed them money might, if his name appeared in the papers, take steps to render themselves unpleasant – indeed, one of them had even gone so far as to make references to a horse-whip and a good kicking, and other such vulgarities. Fourthly, finally, and conclusively, he had no new light whatever to throw upon the problem of his step-daughter’s death.

  Mitchell made no comment upon the sufficiency or otherwise of these reasons, and Quin continued with what amounted to a re-telling and a confirmation of Miss Perry’s story. Then he explained that when making inquiries about his wife, of whose death he had not been aware, and from whom he had evidently hoped to borrow more money, he had heard that his step-daughter, now living with her aunt, was competing in a beauty show she was expected to win, with the prize of a possible engagement at Hollywood. Since to Quin, as to many others, the mere whisper of the magic word Hollywood suggested ready, immediate, unlimited cash, the opportunity had instantly seemed heaven-sent for the securing of a much-needed pound or two – a born borrower, Quin had in his time turned far less favourable opportunities, in circumstances of far less desperate personal need, to profitable use.

  ‘I knew she might turn out a hard case,’ Quin explained, with the tolerance of one aware that it takes all kinds to make a world. ‘Her ma was like that. Often she wouldn’t turn up a penny till I showed I meant it – why, if you’ll believe me, more than once I’ve had to put my razor to my throat to get as much as the price of a glass of beer out of her. But I hadn’t thought of her changing her name – Quin being what she always went by. The porter at the door said there wasn’t any Miss Quin there, and while we were talking a young lady came in to ask for a box she was expecting. A boy brought it along while she was asking, and she wanted to open it to see if it was all right, but couldn’t get the string undone. So, as there was a knife lying handy on the desk near, I used it to cut the string for her, and afterwards, without thinking, I slipped it in my pocket, just as anyone might. Well, the porter stuck to it there was no Miss Quin, and I knew there was, so I thought to have a look round for her on my own.’

  He paused for a moment to tak
e a sip of his whisky and soda, and Bobby took the opportunity to make a note on a separate slip of paper:

  ‘Probably means he wanted to get away with the knife before Wood discovered it was gone.’

  Quin continued:

  ‘It wasn’t long before I spotted Carrie and the room she had. I can’t pretend she showed any natural feeling at seeing her daddy again,as she always called me when she was a kiddy. She did get as far as opening her handbag once, when I told her a single one-pound note might stand between me and the river. But then she shut it again, and gave a heartless sort of snigger, and said: “Right-oh, make it the river, then.” Her very words, gentlemen, I assure you, spoken to one who was as good as father to her, and had guided her baby steps and guarded her infant cradle, and the way she snapped her handbag made me sure there was more in it than she wanted to be seen – there’s a lot in noticing little things like that. So when she said that about the river, I said: “ Perhaps you would rather I cut my throat this minute,” and I got out my knife and put it to my throat. Now, her mother, she could never bear that – never. If you were driven to the razor, it was good for something every time, no matter how little she had. But Carrie – you’ll hardly believe it – hard as nails she was, and what do you suppose? I give you my word she snatched up a ruler from the desk and cracked me with it on the elbow-joint! I had to let the knife drop, and then she had the face to tell me all she wanted was to save a mess on the carpet, and if I didn’t clear out right away she would call the manager and have me put out.

  ‘Well, when a girl can be that hard to practically her own daddy, there’s no good talking. So I took the dignified line, told her it was all right, but she mustn’t blame me for the consequences, and I retired without another word, and her with her hand on the bell, if you’ll believe me. But I made up my mind I would see what she had in that handbag made her shut it so quick when she remembered, and when she came out to do her bit on the stage I just slipped in to see if it was there still. It was on the table, and, for fear of being misunderstood if anyone happened to come in, I took it outside to have a good look; and there, first thing that happened as I was crossing the road was that some fool of a motor-cyclist nearly as possible ran me down. We had a few words, but I must say in the end he did the gentleman and gave me a pound note.’