by Sapper
“‘What the something, something,’ he shouted, ‘are you doing here?’
“‘Keep it clean, girlie,’ I said. ‘I’m not doing anything particular. Just taking a little walking exercise, that’s all.’
“‘Then in future you can damned well take your walking exercise elsewhere,’ he snarled. ‘This is private in here.’
“‘Then why don’t you put up a notice to that effect on the door?’ I cried.
“He didn’t answer: just hustled me out of the place. Then he shut and locked the door, and went back to the office. What do you make of that, Mr Wentworth?”
“I can’t say that I make very much,” answered Algy. “Why shouldn’t there be some private place through that door? I don’t see that there is anything particularly suspicious about it.”
“I had a dekko outside,” went on Tredgold, “and that part beyond the door is where the stone cellars are.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Do you think they can be hiding anything in them?” said the other mysteriously.
Algy Longworth began to laugh.
“What the dickens should they want to hide things for? And what sort of things, anyway?”
But Tredgold was in no way perturbed by his laughter.
“I’m not going to say what I think, yet, Mr Wentworth,” he answered quietly. “But you mark my words: there’s going to be some fun here before we’ve finished.”
“Well, they’ll have to hurry up, then,” said Algy. “There is only about another week to go before we’re through.”
“Just so,” agreed Tredgold. “And within that week we shall see what we shall see, if we keep our eyes open.” Once again he lowered his voice mysteriously. “What was a motorcar doing at the entrance round at the back there at eleven o’clock last night?”
“If it comes to that,” said Longworth, “what were you doing there?”
“Watching,” said the other, in no way abashed. “I’ve got digs in the village, and after supper yesterday I took a walk up here. The whole place was in darkness, but as I rounded a corner I heard voices in front of me. I was wearing rubber shoes, so I made no noise. And as I crept nearer I recognised who they were, though they were talking low. Hardcastle was one of them, and Penton and Slingsby were with him. They’d got the door open – the one that leads from the outside to the cellars, and it seemed to me they were taking stuff out of the car and carrying it inside.”
In spite of himself, Algy Longworth began to feel impressed. After all, Drummond had specifically stated that he thought something was going on: was it possible that this foxy little man had ferreted it out?
“You can’t tell me,” continued Tredgold, “that it’s the normal thing for the three boss men of a show like this to be creeping about at eleven o’clock at night in the back premises of the place. No lights, mark you: not even a torch.”
“You’re quite right,” agreed Algy. “It does seem a bit fishy.”
“Fishy!” snorted the other. “It smells to me like Billingsgate Market.”
“But I still can’t think what they can be hiding, and why they should bother to hide it here.”
Tredgold lit a cigarette.
“I don’t know if you’ve studied psychology at all, Mr Wentworth,” he remarked – “crime psychology in particular. I have; and one of the first principles is that the more obvious a thing is the more likely a man is to get away with it. Within limits, of course. Put a valuable paper in the middle of your desk, and the betting is that a thief will overlook it and spend his time forcing the safe. Now in a different respect it’s the same here. Everything on the face of it is straight and above-board: the making of the film has been advertised; the public know all about it; visitors are admitted to the studio; a well-known millionaire is actually acting. No one would dream of suspecting anything: why should they? In short, you have here the ideal atmosphere for carrying out a big coup right under everybody’s nose.”
Algy was listening intently: more and more was he getting impressed.
“Now,” continued the other, “let’s take the practical side of the show. Greatorex is putting up the money for this film. All right. But what does that amount to? What are the Hardcastle bunch going to get out of it? Even if this film is a howling success – which it won’t be – they’re not going to get enough by the time it’s split up amongst ’em to pay for cigars. It isn’t as if this was a regular company, making films all the year round, of which this was one. This is the first they’ve done, and so far as I know it’s going to be the last. At any rate they’ve taken no steps to renew their lease. Of course Greatorex may be paying ’em a big fee. Even so, there’s not going to be a vast amount in it. And my humble opinion is that they are using this film as a cloak for something else: something from which they really will handle big money.”
“But how were they to know that Greatorex would put up the money?” said Algy. “If he hadn’t, they’d never have been here.”
“That’s no objection, Mr Wentworth. It was only after he had said he’d ante up, and presumably had commissioned them to go ahead, that this other scheme suggested itself to them.”
“And have you any idea in your mind as to what this other scheme is?”
Tredgold glanced round cautiously.
“What is it, Mr Wentworth, that there is always a demand for? What is it that for its bulk is the most paying proposition in the world to unscrupulous men?”
“You mean dope?” cried Algy.
“Sh!” said the other warningly. “Yes: that’s what I mean. Mark you, I’ve got no proof. It’s only suspicion on my part. But I believe those beauties have taken advantage of having this studio to smuggle drugs on a large scale. You can take it from me that some pretty queer fish come floating around that office: men who have got nothing to do with the film business.”
“How are we going to find out?”
Tredgold winked mysteriously.
“You leave that to me,” he said. “Mr Blooming Penton isn’t quite as clever as he thinks he is. And I know where he keeps the key of the door. It’s in a drawer in his desk, and sometimes he forgets to lock it if he goes out for a few minutes. Now the next chance I get I’ll take a wax impression; then we can have a key made. And once that is done it will be just a question of waiting for a suitable opportunity. Not a word to a soul, don’t forget: I’ll keep you posted as to how things go.”
He sauntered off, leaving Algy Longworth thinking deeply. Not a particularly pleasant little man, Mr Tredgold, but he knew the breed: as sharp as they make them, and a regular nosey-Parker to boot. And the more he thought over their conversation, the more did it seem to him that there might be a lot in it. As far as he could see, there was no flaw in the reasoning: not only was it logically sound, but in addition, bearing in mind what he knew of the characters of the three men, it was inherently likely. And though he had purposely refrained from saying anything about that to Tredgold, he realised that his inside knowledge was strong confirmation of the little man’s theory. It supplied at once a plausible motive for the murder of young Marton. Somehow or other he must have found out what was going on behind the scenes, and had threatened to split on them. The whole sequence of events fitted together perfectly, and the first thing to be done now was to get in touch with Drummond.
He wished Laura had been there, but she had not been wanted that afternoon. He would like to have had her opinion on it: she might have spotted some flaw. But try as he would, he couldn’t: the thing seemed not only plausible, but probable. The fact of the three men having been there in the middle of the night, secretly, without lights, was in itself almost damning in its suspiciousness.
He strolled over to the corner indicated by Tredgold: there was the door. He tried the handle: it was locked. And then, since his scene was not due for another half-hour, he decided to hav
e a little tour of inspection outside. He found that it was just as Tredgold had said – that end of the building was evidently the older, and constructed entirely of stone. A few small, cobwebby windows covered with iron bars occurred at intervals: the whole exterior gave the impression of decay and neglect.
Halfway round he came to the door, which was clearly the one at which Tredgold had seen the car. And he was on the point of trying that handle too when it suddenly opened and Hardcastle stepped out.
“Good afternoon, Mr Wentworth,” he said quietly. “Not acting for the moment?”
“No,” answered Algy. “Not for the next half-hour.”
“I see. And so you’re taking a little constitutional?”
“That’s the notion. Quaint old studio, isn’t it?”
Hardcastle locked the door before replying.
“Very quaint,” he remarked. “But this end of the place is not the studio, Mr Wentworth. Don’t let me detain you from your walk.”
Algy Longworth strolled on, feeling more convinced than ever that Tredgold was right. Something fishy was going on in that part of the building, and the instant he got back to London he went round to Drummond’s club. But there was no sign of him, and the hall porter said he had not been in for several days. There was nothing for it but to write him, which he did, at length: a letter which in due course found its way to the Post Office, Colchester, addressed to Mr Henry Johnson, a gentleman who bore a striking resemblance to the hefty-looking stage-hand whose hobby was carrying planks.
To Drummond it came as a ray of light in the most impenetrable darkness. Quite frankly, he had admitted himself defeated; the fact, unknown of course to Algy, which had caused him to drop the planks in his surprise had seemed to lead nowhere on further thought. For as Travers had come on the stage he had spotted suddenly a thing that had eluded him till then. When he had first seen Sir Edward Greatorex in the Ritz Carlton, he had felt vaguely that he had met him before. But in that moment at the studio he realised the truth. For Travers might well have been Marton’s brother, and it was Marton he had been reminded of when he saw the financier in the lounge of the hotel.
The difference in their ages had deceived him, but the instant he saw another young man who was like Marton the thing was obvious. Marton was to have been the understudy for the millionaire, and when he was killed it became necessary to find someone else. Hence the advertisement.
So far, so good; but it was after that that he had stuck. The motive for Marton’s murder was still as obscure as ever. Why kill a perfectly good double when it might prove to be a matter of very considerable difficulty to replace him? That was what had been defeating him, and Longworth’s letter seemed to supply the answer. In fact, it looked as if the whole plot could be reconstructed.
Sir Edward Greatorex had commissioned the Hardcastle crowd to stage a film for him, in which he proposed to play a part. They, realising the possibility of his being no use, had looked around for an understudy. By chance the Comtessa had met young Marton, and had instantly seen that there was the very man for their purpose owing to his amazing likeness to the millionaire. In some way or other he had discovered that other things beside making a film were intended, and had threatened to split on them.
There were difficulties, of course; not the least being the theft of the bearer bonds. Drummond had believed that that had been a deliberate plant, designed to get Marton more completely in their power; now, in view of this new development, he began to wonder. Because the thing which had been so obscure before was now as clear as daylight – namely, why Marton in particular should have been selected. The point that had stumped Newall and all of them as to why a junior partner in a solicitor’s office should have come into the picture at all was explained. Indeed, it seemed to Drummond that they had been starting from the wrong end. It was young Marton who had led Hardcastle and Co. to the firm, not the firm to young Marton. By chance they had found that the man they wanted was a lawyer, and so, to save trouble, they used his firm for their business. In short, had the murdered man been anything but what he was, Messrs Marton, Peters and Newall would never have come into the show at all.
It certainly simplified things enormously, because it permitted a much easier solution of the theft of the bonds. In the past Carl Peterson and Irma had combined legitimate business with their life of crime – there was no reason why the new combination should not do the same. It was more than possible that Newall was right: that Madame Saumur’s transaction had been a perfectly genuine one, and that the theft was a simple case of embezzlement without any ulterior motive on the other side.
He re-read Longworth’s letter, and another point struck him. It accounted for a further difficulty which had puzzled him up to date – why Glensham House in particular had been taken. If his reconstruction was right, it all fitted in perfectly. From the foundation stone of young Marton’s likeness to the millionaire, which was the beginning of the whole thing, they were led to Marton, Peters and Newall. From Marton, Peters and Newall they were led to a suitable house for taking exteriors, and it proved to be Glensham House. In fact, all the mystery which had appeared to surround the events of the last few days turned out to be no mystery at all. Every single thing was the logical outcome of the fact that a young man, who bore a striking resemblance to a millionaire, happened to belong to a certain firm of lawyers.
He called for a pint of ale gloomily: a sorry end to what had seemed a more promising beginning. He didn’t see himself getting any kick out of finding cocaine in a draughty cellar. It would be amusing to sting them good and hearty, but he had hoped for better things than that. He regretted now that he had ever bothered to go to the studio: it looked as if it was going to prove sheer waste of time. And what was still more galling was that he could take no credit to himself for anything: it was this man Tredgold who had done the unearthing of the whole plot. And a damned uninteresting plot it was at that; the next time he saw Irma he would tell her she must do better in future – she seemed to have lost her form.
For a while he pondered over things: should he chuck the whole show up and go back to London? He could always get down at once if Algy wanted him, and he was getting rather bored with carting scenery about. But after a second pint had gone the way of its predecessor he decided to stick it out. There were only a few days more to go, and something amusing might happen. And so the following morning found Mr Henry Johnson once again at the studio.
Up to date, somewhat to his relief, there had been no sign of Irma. With the others, and even with Algy, he knew he could escape recognition, so perfectly had he disguised himself: with her he was not so sure. He remembered of old her uncanny powers of detection. And though it would not matter very much now if he was spotted, he would have preferred to see it through to the end.
As a matter of fact he was becoming genuinely interested in the actual film. There was no denying that it was good stuff, and since a lot of the scenes now being taken were consecutive ones in the script, it was easy to follow. Every day, religiously at half-past nine, Sir Edward Greatorex appeared; every day his scenes were retaken with Travers in the part during the afternoon. Presumably the secretary had concocted some satisfactory explanation as to why he was only required in the mornings: at any rate he showed no signs of suspecting anything. And with everybody pulling together to keep him in ignorance of the truth, the work ran smoothly.
It was on the third day after he had got Longworth’s letter that Henry Johnson arrived at the studio to find a conference in progress. Sir Edward had not yet come, and a pow-wow was being held on the stage.
“We’ll have to alter things a little today, boys,” Haxton was saying, “because this night scene has got to be shot. Now Sir Edward will smell a rat if he doesn’t play it, and that means he’ll have to stop here the whole afternoon. And that further means that Travers will have to do all the repeats tomorrow: today will be entirely Sir Edward.”
“I think Travers had better double him in the rough-house scene,” said Hardcastle.
Haxton consulted his script.
“That’s tonight. Well, I suggest that Sir Edward plays it up to the actual knock-out, and then Travers can do the bit in the lorry. We may as well let him do as much as he can, since we’ve got to waste the day anyhow. Then we’ll tell him that he’s not wanted at all tomorrow. Hullo! here he is. Good morning, sir: can you manage the whole day today? We want to do your night scene this evening.”
“Certainly, Mr Haxton,” said the millionaire. “I have no engagement, have I, Gardini?”
“No, sir: you’re quite free,” answered the secretary.
For a while Drummond hung about; then, seeing that he would not be wanted, he wandered outside. It was boring watching the same thing twice, and he preferred to see it when done by Travers.
The amusement of watching the financier performing had long worn off, and he was strolling along aimlessly when he saw on the path in front of him the butt end of a cigarette. It was still smoking, and the red marks of lipstick could be seen on the purple tip. He glanced up: above his head was an open window. Evidently it had come from there, and almost as evidently it meant that the Comtessa was honouring the studio with a visit.
He began to stuff his pipe as an excuse for remaining where he was in case anyone looked out. And almost immediately he heard Penton’s voice.
“It’s risky: damned risky. Why bring him here at all?”
“It’s Natalie’s idea,” the Comtessa answered.
There came some grumbling remark from Penton which Drummond could not catch; then a door opened and shut, and he heard Hardcastle speaking.
“Everything is fixed, but I can’t say I like it. However, since she insists on it… Here, what the devil are you doing hanging about there?”
He had come to the window, and Drummond looked up.
