He Dies and Makes no Sign: A Golden Age Mystery

by Molly Thynne

  So obsessed did he become with the idea that, on reaching the main road, he signalled to a taxi and had himself driven to New Scotland Yard.

  Arkwright had just returned to his room and was in the act of hanging up his coat.

  “I’ve been interviewing a bevy of depressing elderly ladies,” he said. “And it’s taken me all of an hour to get them to admit that it’s six months at least since they swept that room under the stage at the Parthenon. Seemed to think I wanted them to sweep it! I nearly told them that the home of lost clues is the dustbin, only I thought it would be bad for their morals. We’ve got a step further since I saw you last.”

  He told Constantine what he had learned the night before.

  “Beyond the fact that he was still alive at six a.m., it doesn’t tell us much,” he finished.

  “Do you know if he seemed dazed at all?” asked Constantine.

  “From what the coffee-stall keeper said, he seems to have been quite himself and rather chatty than otherwise. The loss of memory theory’s gone west, anyhow. He not only knew who he was, but where he lived.”

  Constantine repeated the gist of his conversation with the Duchess.

  “I admit it sounds improbable,” he concluded, “but if you know anything of these people you’ll realize that it’s not impossible.”

  Arkwright nodded.

  “I could tell you one or two things myself,” he said. “Some of them are hushed up and some so unprintable that the Press can’t touch them. When that lot are out for what they call a ‘thrill’, the more idiotic and purposeless a thing is the more likely they are to do it. But I fail to see what even they can have got out of this.”

  “Unless they set out to make a fool of him, managed to get something into his drink and then, later, tried to drug him, in which case they got more than they bargained for,” was Constantine’s grim comment.

  Arkwright rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “He might have been sleeping off the effects of the drug when he was seen on the Embankment,” he mused; “but what happened to him after that? You don’t suggest that they got hold of him again?”

  “I don’t suggest anything,” answered Constantine hopelessly. “I’ve merely put forward a theory. It may not hold water, but you must admit that it goes further towards accounting for his being there at all at that time of night than anything that has cropped up so far.”

  Arkwright swung round in his swivel-chair and faced him.

  “Look here, sir,” he said. “Aren’t you going to have a finger in this pie? I’ve been hoping to catch the estimable Manners on the job before now, but it seems to me that, so far, I’ve been spilling the beans in vain.”

  “I’ve done my best to arrange them in a pretty pattern for you,” Constantine reminded him. “If you don’t like it, it isn’t my fault. What do you want Manners to do?”

  Arkwright grinned.

  “I don’t mind, so long as I’m privileged to catch a glimpse of him at work. I shall never forget the spectacle of him blandly bamboozling Goldstein’s butler. You haven’t got a card or two up your sleeve this time, have you, sir?”

  “I can’t see a ray of light anywhere,” confessed Constantine. “So far as Manners is concerned, he’s at your disposal at any time. As a matter of fact, I believe he’s beginning to look upon himself as a sort of unofficial member of the Force!”

  “I should prefer to feel that you were using him yourself, sir,” said Arkwright frankly. “One would have thought that this was a problem after your own heart.”

  Constantine cocked a reproving eye at him.

  “When you’ve reached my age,” he remarked, “you’ll find little satisfaction in observing other old gentlemen forcibly removed from this earth. The truth is, I’m getting too old for problems of any kind, chess included.”

  Arkwright, after an anxious glance, decided that he was not serious and let him go without further comment.

  But Constantine, as he passed through the gates and out on to the Embankment, found himself drifting back into the mood that had assailed him on his return to London only a few days before. The problem of Julius Anthony’s death was beginning to rouse in him the feeling of helpless resentment that had so embittered his defeat at the hands of the lady from the Balkans. Looking back on the chess tournament, and on that game in particular, he could trace, not only the precise move that had been his undoing, but the exact moment at which he had allowed his irritation to obscure his judgment.

  He crossed the road and stood leaning on the parapet, looking down on the grey, tempestuous swirl of the river.

  “If this goes on,” he thought bitterly, “I shall become the kind of old man I particularly detest. Arkwright was talking sense. If I’m going to make a move in this game I’d better begin now.”

  He stood for a moment staring at the racing tide, glanced at his watch and discovered that it was close on half past one, then, coming to a sudden decision, turned and hailed a passing taxi.

  He told the man to drive to the Parthenon. The cheap matinée was in full swing and Constantine, disregarding the well-meant efforts of the attendant, chose a gangway seat only four rows from the front. From here he had an excellent view of the emergency exit on his left and the door into the orchestra, a view which also included the greater part of the back of the conductor, the head and the shoulders of most of the players, and the whole of the upper portion of the double-bass. The cinema screen, on the other hand, could only be seen at the expense of a severe crick in the neck.

  Constantine gave his attention to the picture for five minutes, spent another five in analyzing the extraordinary symptoms which immediately manifested themselves in his eyes and neck, and then, having become accustomed to the gloom, contented himself with watching the orchestra. He had only the vaguest notion why he had elected to visit the Parthenon, but at the bottom of his mind had been a desire to see the place in action, as it were, and to observe for himself how possible it would be to reach the back of the stage unobserved.

  As he watched he saw one of the musicians slip through the door leading from the orchestra into the auditorium, cross the gangway and go out by the emergency exit. Constantine watched him as he pulled the door open by means of the brass bar that ran across it, heard the click of the latch as the heavy door swung to behind him, and realized that it would be impossible to re-enter from outside.

  As he watched, an attendant strolled up to the door and tried it. Evidently his informant had not exaggerated when he said that it was next to impossible for anybody to have entered the cinema that way.

  In view of Arkwright’s conviction that Anthony’s body had been introduced into the cinema by the stage door at a time when the house was empty, the point was of little importance, but, at any rate, he had cleared it up to his own satisfaction. He made himself as comfortable as his seat would allow, and, the screen being denied him, gave his attention idly to the orchestra.

  The double-bass player, owing to the fact he was standing, was less hidden by the partition than the other players. Constantine had been watching him for some minutes before he became aware that the man was playing under difficulties. Several times he saw him lift his cumbersome instrument and shift it, as though trying to get it into a more convenient position, and once it slipped and jerked violently as he was in the act of drawing the bow across the strings.

  Constantine stared at him, a puzzled frown on his face. He had seen the same thing happen to a ’cellist playing in a room with a parquet floor, but it seemed highly improbable that the flooring of a cinema orchestra would be slippery. It was characteristic of him that, his curiosity once roused, he could not rest till he had found some means of satisfying it, and he gave the matter a consideration quite out of proportion to its importance until he suddenly hit on a probable explanation of the man’s movements.

  The point once settled to his satisfaction, he was about to dismiss it from his mind when he was struck by another possibility, so amazing that he half rose,
then dropped back and sat rigid, his hands clutching the arms of the seat, his eyes fixed on the double-bass player.

  He waited till there was a pause in the music, then got up and made his way down the aisle to the barrier in front of the orchestra. Leaning on it, he greeted one of the ’cellists with whom he had spoken on the night of the finding of Anthony’s body. The man remembered him well, and soon other members of the orchestra were joining in the conversation, anxious to renew their acquaintance with the old man who had provided a welcome relief on that ghastly evening.

  In the course of conversation he told the double-bass player of the problem that had been bothering him, and asked him if his solution had been bothering him, and asked him if his solution had been correct. The man laughed.

  “You’ve got it,” he said. “I used to stand further back. It’s only since they brought in that blessed harmonium and obliged me to move that it’s bothered me. After the first night I got them to put it in front here and I went back to my old place, but the harmonium drowned everything, so we had to change round again.”

  “When was this?” asked Constantine.

  “Which day did that little box of tricks come in, Phil?” demanded the double-bass player.

  The pianist, who doubled the part of harmonium player, answered him.

  “Tuesday last. Was to have come on Monday, but they failed us.”

  “Then it was moved on Wednesday?” persisted Constantine.

  “Yes. We moved it before the last performance on Wednesday, but it didn’t do and we shoved it back again yesterday morning. Bill here has been cursing ever since.”

  “Any objection to my going through and having another look at that room under the stage?” asked Constantine.

  “None. Through the door at the end there. The lights should be on, but if they’re not the chap near the door will turn them on for you.”

  Once in the room it did not take Constantine many minutes to find what he was looking for.

  Brushing the dust off his knees, he groped his way down the narrow passage by which he had entered on the night of his first visit and let himself out by the stage door. He found this securely fastened, and noted that the spring lock acted easily as he shut it carefully behind him.

  He picked up a taxi and drove to his club. There he rang up Arkwright at the Yard.

  “I want to see you,” he said briskly. “Will you call on me at the club, or shall I come to you?”

  Arkwright’s voice sounded dubious.

  “I’ve been to the inquest. Only just back, and up to my ears in work. I don’t know that I can manage it.”

  “I’ve got something for you, and I’m putting all my cards on the table. You’d better come.”

  There was a note in the old man’s voice that Arkwright knew of old.

  “I’ll come to you,” he said briefly.

  He grinned as he turned away from his littered table.

  “He’s got his nose to the ground at last,” he muttered. “I’m glad I chipped him, even at the risk of hurting his feelings.”

  He found Constantine in an armchair by the fire, gazing with seeming satisfaction at the leaping flames.

  “How did the inquest go?” he asked.

  “Adjourned, at our request. What’s the news, sir?”

  “I’ve got at least one step further in establishing the time of Anthony’s death,” said Constantine. “His body was placed in the Parthenon, some time before eight o’clock on Wednesday night.”

  Arkwright’s face lit up with satisfaction.

  “By Jove, sir, you’ve got ahead of us there,” he exclaimed. “This wipes out Wednesday night and the whole of Thursday. How did you arrive at it?”

  “Quite by accident. I’ll tell you the whole story later. Meanwhile, the facts are these. The body was crammed face downwards into the cavity where it was found. That cavity, as you know, is under the flooring of the orchestra. Just above where I imagine the head must have rested there’s a knot-hole in the wood of the flooring, and that knot-hole was responsible for the apparently motiveless wound in the neck.”

  For the life of him he could not help pausing at the most dramatic point of his narrative. Arkwright stared at him.

  “What caused the wound?”

  “The spike, or whatever they call the thing, that you’ll find projecting from the bottom of a ’cello or a double-bass. In this case the double-bass was responsible.”

  “Are you sure of this, sir?” demanded Arkwright.

  “Certainly not,” responded Constantine equably. “It’s your job to prove it, but I’m morally certain that you’ll find I’m right. The person responsible, by the way, is quite unaware of what he’s done. I should suggest that you have the metal analysed. The blood hadn’t coagulated, according to the surgeon.”

  “How do you fix the time limit?” asked Arkwright.

  Constantine told him of the shifting of the harmonium owing to the complaints of the double-bass player.

  “Anthony was seen alive at six-thirty on Wednesday morning,” he said. “During the whole of Wednesday the double-bass player was standing above the hole. Just before the last performance, that is to say about eight o’clock, he moved to make room for the harmonium, which remained there till after the body had been removed. If my theory is correct, it would have been impossible for the wound to have been inflicted after eight o’clock on Wednesday night.”

  Arkwright nodded.

  “Good enough,” he said. “You did not see the body before we moved it out of the recess?”

  “No. In fact, till I stumbled on this piece of information this afternoon, I didn’t know it was lying face downwards, though the position in which I did see it suggested the possibility.”

  “It was lying on its side, with the knees drawn up, but the head and shoulders were twisted and the back of the neck was in the position you describe. It looks as if your explanation is the right one. The wound was undoubtedly caused by a round, pointed instrument, such as a spike. I’ll get Macbane on to this. You got off the mark pretty quickly, sir,” he concluded with a smile.

  Constantine’s eyes twinkled.

  “I’ve moved a pawn,” he conceded, “and I feel ten years younger than when I last saw you. I don’t mind admitting that I’m thinking of bringing my bishop into action.”

  For a moment Arkwright was at a loss, then, with a sudden chuckle, visualized the portly, not unclerical-looking figure of Constantine’s faithful retainer.

  “Manners?” he queried.

  “Manners it is. I see one excellent move for that most useful piece. Meanwhile, having missed my lunch, a sandwich and a glass of sherry seem to be indicated. Whisky for you?”

  Arkwright pulled himself out of his chair and pressed the bell.

  “We’ll drink to the opening of the tournament,” he said.

  CHAPTER VIII

  WHEN Constantine entered his flat that afternoon, Manners, according to his custom, emerged from the back premises to take his coat. There was a reproachful gleam in his eye.

  “Mrs. Carter kept your lunch hot, sir, but I’m afraid the soufflé—”

  “Good heavens, man,” interrupted Constantine, “it’s past three o’clock!”

  He became aware of an anxious female countenance framed in the doorway at the end of the passage.

  “My fault, I’m afraid, Mrs. Carter,” he hastened to apologize. “I ought to have telephoned to say I wasn’t coming back. The loss is mine if I missed that soufflé!”

  Mrs. Carter disappeared, but he still had Manners to reckon with.

  “Have you lunched, sir?” he enquired, with an insistence that, though respectful, was not to be gainsaid.

  “That’s all right, Manners, I had something at the club,” Constantine assured him hastily.

  But Manners was not to be put off so easily.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he continued imperturbably, “but those club sandwiches are very small. Mrs. Carter has kept the soup hot.”

  There
were moments, Constantine reflected irritably, when Manners seemed to be endowed with second sight.

  “I don’t want any soup,” he said firmly; then, with an abrupt change of topic: “The inspector was talking about your work on the Goldstein case. I wish you’d been there, Manners.”

  Manners was only human. Constantine could see by the faint glow of gratification in his eyes that he had gained a moment’s respite.

  “I only followed your directions, sir,” he murmured.

  Impelled by the menace of the hovering soup, Constantine forged ahead.

  “We were wondering whether you’d like to try your hand again,” he said.

  Manners, with difficulty maintaining his pose of imperturbable detachment, intimated that he was at his master’s disposal.

  “You know what I have in mind, I expect?” said Constantine.

  “The death of this Mr. Anthony, sir? I understand that the inspector is in charge of the case.”

  “You know, of course, that he was Miss Anthony’s grandfather?” said Constantine, perfectly aware that there was very little connected with the house of Steynes that Manners did not know.

  “Yes, sir. A very sad business, if I may say so.”

  “You’ve read the newspaper accounts. Has anything struck you?”

  Manners cleared his throat. For the moment he had forgotten that his mission in life was Constantine’s welfare.

  “Only this, sir,” he volunteered. “If Mr. Anthony’s body was introduced into the Parthenon after his death, it was not brought in while the performance was going on. I am in the habit of frequenting the Parthenon myself, sir, and, from what I have observed, I feel convinced that such a course would be impossible.”

  “There’s a stage door which you may not have noticed,” suggested Constantine. “It gives on to a side alley and isn’t overlooked.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Manners respectfully, “but there is always more or less of a queue outside the house, with the result that there is always a certain number of people standing at the end of the alley. It would be difficult to get past them. And I understand that the door is invariably kept locked. In fact, I went so far as to stroll past it yesterday evening and ascertained that it could not be opened from the outside. From the information I have been able to acquire, I have come to the conclusion that either Mr. Anthony entered the building of his own accord in the morning, before the commencement of the programme, using his own key, and was killed in the room where he was found, or his body was brought in some time in the early morning, before anybody was about. Of course, sir, I have only the newspaper accounts and what little information I was able to pick up on the spot to go by.”