He Dies and Makes no Sign: A Golden Age Mystery

by Molly Thynne

  But again Manners objected.

  “If you don’t mind, sir, I should feel inclined to carry on for the present. I don’t suspect Binns, but he knows something. Whether it’s important or not I can’t say, but he’s very bitter against the police and is holding back on them from sheer sprite. He as good as told me so to-night.”

  “Get it out of him by all means if you can. He may have seen something that night. We seem to have hit a streak of luck, and I believe in following it up.”

  But next morning, in the gloomy fastnesses of Somerset House, he began to wonder whether he had not spoken too optimistically.

  More than one Bianchi had ventured rashly on the seas of matrimony, but none of them had linked his name with that of Anthony, and only those who have dug in vain among the uninspiring records of other people’s official lives know the weariness that ensues after the first fruitless hour. Even Constantine’s enthusiasm began to wane at last, and it was with little hope in his heart that he attacked the Anthony side of the problem.

  His first discovery was that it was a far commoner name in England than he had supposed, and he almost given up hope when he came on what he was seeking.

  For a few minutes he sat staring at his find, hardly able to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Betty had assured him that her father had been Julius Anthony’s only child, but, according to the certificate before him, the old man must have had not one daughter but two, one of whom, Margaret had married Sidney Howells on December the thirteenth, nineteen hundred and five!

  Constantine was forced to the conclusion that either he had stumbled on the wrong Anthony, in which case the Howells connection was curious, to say the least of it, or Howells had actually married Anthony’s daughter and had deliberately withheld the fact from the police.

  If Arkwright had been in town he might have pursued the obvious course and passed on to him the information he had acquired, leaving the police to deal with Howells. But Arkwright was at Brighton, and Constantine, impelled partly by his own insatiable curiosity and partly by the irresistible temptation to steal a march on him, decided to tackle the problem himself.

  He went back to his flat and from there telephoned to Betty Anthony. Giving her no hint as to what he had discovered, he asked her for Howells’ address. She gave it, adding his telephone number.

  “You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?” he asked casually.

  “Ever since I can remember. He was a great friend of my grandfather’s.”

  “Can you tell me his Christian name, in case I want to write to him?”

  “Sidney. What did you want to ask him? Can I help?”

  “An idea has occurred to me in connection with your grandfather’s life in Paris, and I thought he might help me,” stated Constantine mendaciously.

  “I’m afraid you’ll find him useless there. I don’t think he’s ever been out of England.”

  Howells was at home and in the act of giving a music lesson. Constantine, waiting in the ugly, neatly furnished little dining-room, listened to it and pitied him with all his heart, as the wooden-fingered pupil stumbled uncomprehendingly through the first movement of a Mozart sonata.

  Howells had opened the door to him himself, and he had introduced himself as a friend of Betty Anthony’s. He had been favourably impressed both by the man’s quiet, unassuming manner and his intelligent, rather careworn face, and had asked permission to wait until the lesson was over. If Howells felt any misgiving as to the object of his visit he did not show it, but had merely apologized for the delay, which, he said, would not last more than ten minutes, and gone back to his pupil.

  When, later, he ushered Constantine into a slightly larger room, furnished sparsely with a grand piano, a couple of easy-chairs and a littered office desk, he did not waste his breath in useless queries, but sat forward in his chair, his strong, capable hands loosely crossed between his knees.

  Constantine, studying him, realized that neither persuasion or intimidation would serve with this man. If he had anything of importance to impart he would speak or not only as he felt inclined. Acting on this impression, he broached his subject with crudeness unlike his usual methods.

  “I introduced myself as a friend of Miss Anthony’s,” he said, “but, to be honest, my acquaintance with her is of very recent date. I am, however, a very old friend of Lord Marlowe’s. You’ve heard rumours of their engagement, I expect?”

  “I had the news from Miss Anthony,” assented Howells noncommittally.

  “I should like you to believe that, in coming here to-day, I have done so in the hope of saving, not only my own old friends, but Miss Anthony herself, from the unnecessary publicity of a police investigation.”

  Howells stiffened.

  “I have already placed my services at the disposal of the police,” he said shortly.

  “I know,” agreed Constantine. Then, with an abrupt change of manner that took Howells off his guard:

  “I have a feeling that we are walking round each other like dogs about to fight. Why not save time by assuming that we meet as good friends of Miss Anthony’s, anxious to spare her as much as possible? May I be as frank with you as I hope you will be with me?”

  Seeing that the other man remained silent and on the defensive, he continued:

  “I have just come from Somerset House, Mr. Howells. By an accident I got there ahead of the police, but unless I report to them to-night they will start an investigation on their own account to-morrow. I have an idea that you may prefer to speak to me rather than to them. After all, they are concerned only with the death of Mr. Anthony. My object, on the other hand, is to safeguard the interests of Miss Anthony and the family into which I hope she will marry.”

  The antagonism that had deadened Howells’ eyes at the opening of Constantine’s little speech did not abate.

  “Do you mean to tell me that Lord Marlowe’s family is placing no obstacle in the way of the match?” he asked dryly.

  “May I answer your question with another?” parried Constantine with his most placating smile. “From your personal knowledge of Miss Anthony, would they be justified in doing so?”

  A stain of red appeared on Howells’ thin cheek-bones.

  “Any man who gets Betty Anthony can count himself lucky,” was his curt rejoinder.

  Constantine nodded.

  “Though you may find it difficult to believe, that is the view of her future husband’s people. The engagement will be announced almost immediately, and our object, yours and mine, is to prevent anything interfering with it.”

  Howells hesitated, then, as if he had come to a sudden decision, spoke.

  “I have heard about you from Betty,” he said slowly. “If I tell you certain things will you undertake to keep them from her?”

  “To the best of my power, I will,” said Constantine frankly; “but if they have any bearing on Mr. Anthony’s death I shall have to pass them on to the authorities. I think you must see that.”

  “If they had I should have told the police of them myself,” answered Howells decisively. “There can be no connection.”

  “In that case may I give you a lead? The Margaret Anthony whom you married in nineteen five was Julius Anthony’s daughter?”

  Howells nodded.

  “You traced that at Somerset House, I suppose?” he said. “We were married in London and lived here for eighteen months. Then I followed my father-in-law to Paris, where he was playing in a theatre orchestra, taking my wife with me. I wish to God I’d stayed in England. Before we’d been in Paris six months she left me. I’ve never seen her since.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then Constantine spoke.

  “I’m sorry to have to ask this,” he said gently, “but is she still living?”

  “I don’t know. She went away with an Italian, a fellow called Bianchi, who had a financial interest in a cabaret show in which my wife was appearing. She was a singer, you know. Mr. Anthony followed her and did his best to persuade her to co
me back. I—I’d have taken her back then, gladly.”

  He paused, and Constantine, who was engaged in reconstructing his ideas, waited in silence for him to proceed.

  “She wouldn’t listen to him, and I’ve never had either a sign or a word from her since. Mr. Anthony went to her again, two years after that, when she was very ill, but she refused to see me, and, from then on, we both lost sight of her altogether.”

  Constantine pulled himself together. He realized suddenly the depth of the tragedy into which he had blundered.

  “I’m afraid this has been very painful for you,” he said, “and I must apologize for such a gross intrusion on your privacy. But I had no choice. I hope you will believe that.”

  He was marking time, trying to gauge how great a shock the news of his wife’s illness and possible death would be to the man.

  Howells nodded.

  “I’m not sorry this has happened,” he admitted. “I had hoped the whole thing was dead and buried. Mr. Anthony never alluded to it, and I have tried to forget it. But if, as you say, the police have got wind of it, I am glad to have had the opportunity of putting the facts before you now.”

  “Did you ever have reason to suppose that Mr. Anthony had had news of his daughter?” asked Constantine.

  “I’m sure he hadn’t. If she had been in any kind of want I know he would have come to me.”

  “And yet he not only heard from her, but saw her not so long ago,” Constantine informed him gently.

  Howells stared at him in astonishment.

  “But that’s impossible!” he exclaimed incredulously. “I’ve been in constant touch with him, and he’d no earthly reason for concealing the fact.”

  “In spite of which there seems every indication that he travelled to Brighton last January and interviewed her in a hospital there.”

  Again there was silence, then:

  “Is she dead?” asked Howells, his voice ominously quiet.

  “I’m afraid that’s more than I can say,” said Constantine, “but by this evening I may be able to set your mind at rest.”

  He told him briefly of his discovery of the wireless message and hinted at the possible bearing it might have on Anthony’s death.

  “Inspector Arkwright is at Brighton now,” he concluded, “and may have important news for us when he comes back. There is a possibility that she may have recovered on the first occasion and have sent for him again on Tuesday last.”

  “But why the secrecy?” exclaimed Howells in bewilderment. “I must have seen him only a few days after his return. It’s inconceivable that he should have kept me in the dark.”

  “From what you say, he seems to have been almost abnormally sensitive about his daughter’s behaviour,” Constantine pointed out. “Miss Anthony is not a child, and yet he has allowed her to believe that her father had no brothers or sisters. As he grew older the thing might have become an obsession with him.”

  “Unless he had good reason for keeping silent he would have told me,” insisted Howells. “As for Betty, if you had been more thorough in your investigations at Somerset House you would have been able to answer that question for yourself,” he finished with a mirthless smile.

  Constantine stared at him.

  “You mean . . .” he began slowly.

  “Julius Anthony never had a son. Margaret was his only child, and Betty is her daughter. Now you see why I kept my marriage from the police.”

  “But if Betty is your child,” said Constantine, groping feebly, “I don’t see . . .”

  Howells shook his head.

  “Not mine, Bianchi’s,” he answered. “Betty was born a year after her mother left me. Margaret was very ill when Betty was born, and, in any case, she resented her coming. Bianchi, who thought she was going to die, sent for Mr. Anthony. He went, and, realizing the kind of life an unwanted child would lead in that sort of ménage, he brought the baby back with him. Betty has been with him ever since.”

  “You never divorced your wife?”

  “I would have if she’d asked me, but Bianchi was a Roman Catholic and would not have married her if I had.”

  Constantine nodded.

  He knew now why Anthony had been so insistent on an interview with Marlowe.

  Howells turned to him, his face white and drawn, an agonized appeal in his eyes.

  “You see now why I tried to keep the whole story dark. Will this mean the end of everything for Betty?”

  Constantine tried to reassure him.

  “Not so far as Lord Marlowe is concerned,” he said, “and I believe I can speak for the Duke. The Duchess, alas, is always an unknown quantity, but she has taken a great fancy to the girl, and that goes a long way with her.”

  A bleak smile illumined Howells’ face.

  “Rather a case of the pot calling the kettle black, wouldn’t it be?” he suggested. “I had a look in the Peerage after Betty told me the news.”

  Constantine’s eyes twinkled.

  “Every family has to have its beginnings,” he said, “and, in the eyes of the world, I’m afraid there’s a difference between the indiscretions of a royal prince and those of Signor Bianchi! But, so far as one can see, there seems no reason why the story should be made public.”

  “Is there any real reason why it should go any further?” demanded Howells. “I can see that the Duke will have to know, of course, but surely, for his own sake, he’ll keep it to himself.”

  Constantine shook his head.

  “The police know too much already, and it’s better that they should be told than that they should ferret it out for themselves. I think I can promise that, unless it has any direct bearing on Mr. Anthony’s death, it will not be repeated. In fact, for the present, I suggest that we say nothing to Betty.”

  “As regards Betty,” said Howells slowly, “I never quite agreed with Mr. Anthony’s policy. It has always struck me as possible that Bianchi might turn up and make things very unpleasant for her.”

  “I suppose the man’s still alive?”

  “I have no idea. An old friend of Mr. Anthony’s wrote to him about a year ago saying that he had heard a rumour of his death, but it was never substantiated.”

  “What was the fellow like?”

  “A typical Italian. Good-looking in a sort of way. Dark, with a small moustache. I saw very little of him, and had no idea that things had gone so far between him and Margaret till the crash came.”

  Constantine questioned him further about Anthony’s life in Paris, but could glean nothing of any significance.

  As regards Anthony’s prospective tour, he showed surprise that the old man should not have mentioned it to him, but was of the opinion that he would have jumped at any opportunity to get away from his job at the cinema. He considered Betty’s attitude towards the matter unreasonable and partly due to the fact that she had never realized how much her grandfather had loathed the cinema work.

  “This influx of syncopated music was a real tragedy to the old man,” he said. “Light music he could tolerate, indeed he had to, practically all through his life, but this American stuff maddened him. He would have jumped at the chance to get away from it.”

  “Did he mention his meeting with Civita to you?”

  “No. But that’s not surprising. He stayed on in Paris for a long time after I left, and had many friends I never met. No doubt this man Civita was one of them.”

  Constantine had been favourably impressed with Howells from the beginning, and he left him feeling convinced of his loyalty both to Betty and her grandfather. His information had been disturbing, to say the least of it, and he decided to keep it to himself until he had heard the result of Arkwright’s visit to Brighton. Meanwhile there could be no harm in sounding Civita.

  He caught him at one of the busiest moments of his day.

  “I should have excused myself,” he said, “if it had been anyone but you, Doctor Constantine. But I know that with you I am safe. You are like me: you say what you have to say, and then—f
inish! The others sit and talk—but, oh, how they talk!”

  “I’m not even going to talk,” Constantine assured him. “I’ve come to ask questions. But I’ll make them as short as I can. First of all, during your time in Paris did you ever come across a man called Bianchi?”

  Civita’s eyebrows rose whimsically.

  “I should not like to have to say how many men called Bianchi I have come across in my lifetime,” he said with a smile. “But I think I know the one you mean. This is in connection with Julius Anthony, eh?”

  “My enquiries usually are, nowadays,” parried Constantine. “Can you tell me anything about him?”

  “Only gossip, if that is any use to you. For myself, I think gossip is under-rated. It is very useful, and, in a great many cases, true. Personally, I never met the man, but he was talked about at one time. He had, it seemed, too much money, and he was what we call mal educati. You understand?”

  “Only too well,” said Constantine.

  “He was living, I think, at Dinard when I was in Paris, but he would come there sometimes. He had an interest in a theatre or a cabaret, I do not know which. I don’t suppose I should have remembered all this, but I was interested for the same reason that you are interested now.”

  “Julius Anthony?”

  “Exactly, Julius Anthony. It was said that Bianchi was living with Anthony’s daughter. She never came to Paris and no one ever saw her, but I met people who had known her in the old days, of course.”

  “How long is it since you last heard of him?”

  Civita thrust out his hands.

  “Fifteen years. More than that, perhaps. I do not know.”

  “Anthony never spoke of him?”

  “If you knew Anthony you would not ask me that. He was a silent man at all times, and I was told that this had almost broken his heart. No, Anthony never spoke of it.”

  Constantine threw out a feeler.

  “Did you ever know Miss Anthony’s father?”

  Civita looked at him, a long, scrutinizing glance that revealed nothing.

  “No. I understood that he had died some years before, but, as I told you, Julius Anthony did not talk of these things, and, if you knew him, you did not ask questions.”