He Dies and Makes no Sign: A Golden Age Mystery

by Molly Thynne

  And Constantine, watching the thin, implacable line of the discreet lips, the bland impenetrability of the dark, heavy-lidded eyes, knew that Civita had said all he meant to say on this subject. If he knew the secret of Betty’s birth, it was safe with him.

  And Constantine felt convinced that he did know.

  CHAPTER X

  CONSTANTINE returned home to a lunch served by Mrs. Carter. Manners, it would seem, was pursuing the other and more thrilling half of his double life.

  He returned early in the afternoon and appeared before his master with such a wild gleam in his eye that, for one incredulous moment, Constantine suspected that he had been drinking.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Manners in a hushed voice that he tried hard to keep level, “but I have one of the musicians in the hall.”

  In spite of his efforts there lurked in his eyes the modest triumph of a conjurer who has unexpectedly succeeded in producing a rabbit from a hat.

  Constantine’s lips twitched.

  “What do you propose to do with him, Manners?” he enquired mildly.

  “I think, sir, it would be advisable for you to see him,” said Manners with a touch of reproof in his voice. “He has informed me that he saw Mr. Anthony on Tuesday night in company with another gentleman. From his account this would be after Mr. Anthony left the Trastevere, sir.”

  If his object was to make Constantine sit up, he quite literally succeeded.

  “Who is this man?” he demanded.

  “I understand that his instrument is the piccolo,” Manners informed him meticulously. “He was at one time a member of the Parthenon orchestra and is now out of work. Following your directions, I have been making a habit of going to a bar frequented by some of the members of the orchestra, and I’ve already succeeded in exchanging a few remarks on the weather and so forth with some of them. This man joined them to-night, and, in the course of conversation, mentioned the fact that he had some information and was troubled in his mind as to whether he ought to pass it on to the police. When I overheard what he had to say it struck me as advisable that he should tell his story direct to you, sir, so I took the liberty of mentioning your name. One of the musicians recognized it. I understand that he had some conversation with you on the night Mr. Anthony’s body was found, and he supported me in my suggestion that this man, Andrews by name, should come back with me and give his account to you in person. Would you wish me to show him in, sir?”

  “Good heavens, yes! And, Manners, drinks.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The piccolo player turned out to be a shabby, red-headed little man with a white, careworn face and a manner whose perkiness seemed due more to pluck than good fortune. Sitting on the edge of his chair, a mild whisky-and-soda in his hand, he told his story.

  He had known Anthony when he played in the Parthenon orchestra, and was quite positive that he had seen him walking with another man close to Knightsbridge soon after ten-thirty on the Tuesday night. Becoming more at his ease, he admitted that, times being hard, he had followed the two men in the hope that Anthony might part from his companion and give him a chance of asking him for help. But it soon became obvious that he was not going to get the opportunity he wanted, and he had dropped back and had not even watched the men out of sight. All he could say was that they had been going in the direction of Kensington Gore.

  “There’s no doubt about it being Mr. Anthony,” he declared. “I’d know him anywhere.”

  “Did his manner strike you as unusual in any way?” asked Constantine.

  Andrews shook his head.

  “He was just as usual,” he said. “He wasn’t talking much, so far as I can remember. Just a word here and there. The other man was doing most of the talking.”

  “You’d never seen this man before, I suppose?”

  “Never. I should know him again, though. Owing to me wanting a word with Mr. Anthony I had a good look at him.”

  “What was he like?”

  “About the same height and build as Mr. Anthony, but a good bit younger. Pale face, clean-shaven. Might have been a foreigner.”

  “I never saw Mr. Anthony when he was alive,” said Constantine, “but I take it that medium height and slight in build would describe your man?”

  “That’s right. It was only when I was discussing the murder with some of the chaps from the Parthenon that I realized that I might have been the last person to see Mr. Anthony alive.”

  “As a matter of fact, he was seen later by two other people, but he was alone then. The police are anxious to trace the man you saw, and I should advise you to go at once to New Scotland Yard with this story.”

  Andrews rose to his feet.

  “Then I’ll get along there now,” he said with an energy that seemed a little forced. “My time’s my own, and I may as well spend it that way as in hanging round the agencies.”

  He picked up his shabby hat and stood hesitating, evidently at a loss as to whether to shake hands or not. Constantine solved the difficulty by walking with him to the door.

  “Work isn’t easy to come by just now, I’m afraid?” he said kindly.

  The little man achieved a rather sickly grin.

  “That’s right,” he agreed. “Takes the heart out of you hearing the same answer over and over again. However, I’m not one of the married ones, so I can’t complain. Got no one but myself to keep.”

  “You’ll be out of pocket in fares, besides wasting time over this business,” said Constantine. “As Mr. Anthony’s no longer here, perhaps you’ll let me act in his stead. I’m a friend of his daughter’s, you know, and I’m sure I’m only doing what she would wish.”

  He slipped a little packet of notes into the man’s hand. Andrews stared at him, a slow flush creeping over his pale skin.

  “I wasn’t thinking of that when I came here,” he stammered.

  “I know,” Constantine assured him quickly. He placed a hand on his shoulder and thrust him towards the door. “Take it, man,” he said. “I should do the same in your place.”

  Andrews hesitated, then pocketed the money.

  “I won’t say I don’t need it,” he admitted. “I hardly know how to thank you, sir.”

  “Then don’t try,” was Constantine’s cheerful answer. “And let me know how you get on. If you can identify this man, you’ll earn the gratitude of the Yard.”

  Arkwright rang him up late that afternoon.

  “I’d like to see you,” he said, “but things are getting piled up here. If I can come round about elevenish I will. Meanwhile I’ve got quite a good bag, though how much it’s worth I’m not sure, but it may link up with a good deal that we know already. I’ve seen the report on that chap Andrews you sent on to us. Bad luck he didn’t know the man.”

  “Come round any time,” answered Constantine, “no matter how late you may be. There’s just one thing you might tell me. Is Anthony’s daughter still living?”

  “She died the night he arrived in Brighton. It’s an ugly story, I’m afraid, but it’ll have to wait till we meet.”

  “By the way, how about that little commission I gave you?”

  Arkwright laughed.

  “It’s done. Our man called on Howells on some excuse and got the fingerprints. I don’t know which of the old dodges he used to get them, but he swears that Howells did not spot him. He reports that he seemed rattled, though, when he discovered that he’d come from the Yard. I wonder if that chap’s got something up his sleeve?”

  “I doubt it,” answered Constantine softly, adding the word “now,” for the benefit of the receiver.

  “Anyway, I’ll bring the prints to-night if I can make it,” Concluded Arkwright.

  He did make it, though it was close on midnight before he arrived at Constantine’s flat in Westminster and sank gratefully into a chair by the fire.

  Constantine waited until Manners had brought in drinks and a generous supply of sandwiches, and then, placing a box of Halva at Arkwright’s elbow, se
ttled down to enjoy himself.

  “You didn’t happen to see Mrs. Bianchi’s death certificate, I suppose?” he asked blandly.

  Arkwright grinned.

  “I left that to you,” he retorted, “seeing that you were spending the day at Somerset House! As a matter of fact, Anthony made all the arrangements for the funeral, and my informants, the ward sister and one of the nurses, had nothing to do with that side of the affair. I got quite a lot out of them, though. The whole situation seems to have appealed to their sense of romance and they remembered more than I’d hoped for. Their description of her death would have set your imagination working again!”

  Constantine looked up quickly.

  “Why, what did she die of?”

  “Drugs,” said Arkwright slowly. “She’d been at it for years. It’s curious, after our conversation anent the Trastevere.”

  Constantine’s eyebrows contracted.

  “Did anything come out that might link her with the Trastevere?” he asked.

  “Nothing. She told the ward sister that she’d only been in England a month and hadn’t lived in London for years. She’d come from France, apparently.”

  “Was she able to speak to her father before she died?”

  “Yes. And that may be significant. They had a long conversation, according to the nurse, who says she was very weak, naturally, but quite clear-headed. If her heart hadn’t given out that night she might have pulled through. Anthony seems to have been very much moved and furiously indignant over the state in which he found her. She told the nurse that she had learned the habit from her husband, and that he had deserted her and left her practically without funds several years before. No doubt she said the same to her father, which would account for his anger. Why did you ask if I’d seen the certificate?”

  “Because, though she no doubt found it convenient to allude to Bianchi as her husband, she wasn’t married to him. Her real name was Howells.”

  Arkwright’s glass stopped half way to his mouth. He replaced it on the tray in silence.

  “The devil it was!” he ejaculated softly. “Not our friend?”

  Constantine nodded.

  “The same. That’s what he had up his sleeve.”

  “Then why on earth did he hold up on us? He’d no object in keeping it dark.”

  “As a friend of Betty Anthony’s he had every object. I may as well tell you I’m holding a brief for Howells. He’s a very decent fellow.”

  He gave Arkwright a brief account of his interview with the man following his visit to Somerset House.

  “Betty’s mother was old Anthony’s only child,” he concluded, “and my mind is naturally exercised as to how we can keep the fact from her. Marlowe will have to know, of course.”

  “Anthony was going to tell him?”

  “Exactly. Hence his letter to him.”

  “Unless all this has a direct bearing on the murder, you can trust us not to give the show away,” Arkwright said thoughtfully. “According to what I’ve been able to learn to-day, Anthony stayed for the funeral and then went straight up to London. He seems to have been in a pretty savage mood.”

  “And may have tried to get on the track of Bianchi. It’s not impossible. Bianchi may even have been the man Andrews saw that night.”

  Arkwright shrugged his shoulders.

  “It’s as good a hypothesis as any,” he said. “If we could find any sort of motive we might get a move on.”

  “The motive might lie in something his daughter told him. She seems to have spoken fairly frankly to this nurse. Did she suggest that Bianchi was engaged in any kind of drug traffic?”

  “Apparently not. The nurse jumped to the conclusion that he was an addict himself and had passed it on to his wife.”

  “It’s likely,” agreed Constantine, “and quite sound as regards the psychology of the drug-taker. My point was that she may have told Anthony something that would give him some hold over this man, and, in his anger, he may have threatened him. The manner of Anthony’s death rather bears this out.”

  “And according to your account, Howell’s description of Bianchi would hold good for the fellow Andrews saw. Anthony may have got on his track.”

  “At the Trastevere?”

  Arkwright turned and faced him.

  “Look here,” he said. “Are you hinting at Civita?”

  Constantine was lying back in his chair, his eyes on the dancing flames.

  “It seems difficult to believe,” he said slowly. “Personally, I like Civita, and I believe he had a sincere regard for Anthony. In his own line he’s a great man. But he’s an unknown quantity.”

  “If we’re going on the line that he’s Bianchi, that’s a point that Howells can settle in a moment. If he’s not Bianchi, I ask you, Why?”

  Constantine shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I should suggest letting Howells have a look at him. Have you got those fingerprints, by the way?”

  Arkwright took an envelope out of his pocket and passed it to him.

  “Why Howells’ prints?” he asked, drawing the box of Halva towards him and burrowing blissfully into it. He had an inordinate love of the sticky Turkish sweetmeat. “I thought you’d given him a clean sheet.”

  “So I have,” admitted Constantine. “I want these for future reference. There’s a point I think you may have overlooked.”

  “What’s that?” demanded Arkwright sharply.

  “That’s a card I’m not putting on the table just at present,” said Constantine with an exasperating twinkle in his eyes. “To go back to Civita. Have you got any data as to his movements on Tuesday night?”

  “Plenty. We passed the rule over him as a matter of course. We’d only his word for it that he hadn’t seen Anthony. Well, there’s nothing doing. Anthony was seen alive and, apparently, in the best of health at six a.m. on the Wednesday, and at six-fifteen Civita rang up the police from his flat to say that his car had been stolen. We even went so far as to verify that call. It was from his flat all right. It’s humanly impossible for him to have got from there to Waterloo Road and back in the time.”

  “The car really was stolen, I suppose?”

  Arkwright nodded.

  “There’s nothing fishy there. Civita was undoubtedly at the Trastevere till about one forty-five on Wednesday morning. He then went home in his car. His story is that he went upstairs to his flat to fetch the key of the lock-up garage in which he keeps the car, and came down five minutes later to find the car gone. This is borne out by the fact that the car was found later on Wednesday morning in Kensington. He then went to bed and rang up the police when he got up at six-fifteen to go Mass. He did go to Mass, by the way. We’ve ascertained that.”

  “You’re sure it was Civita himself who rang up?”

  “No. But he took his milk in and was seen by the milk-boy at six-twenty, so you see we’ve covered him pretty carefully. His charwoman saw him when he got back from Mass, and he was at the Trastevere literally all day, till late in the evening. I’m afraid you’ll have to let him out.”

  “Well, I’m not sorry,” said Constantine with a smile. ‘“Frankly, I should regret to see Civita languishing behind bars. He’s too picturesque a figure in my life to be spared easily. Has it occurred to you that the descriptions of Bianchi and the man Anthony was seen with apply also the bogus piano-tuner who ransacked the Anthony’s room’s?”

  “What did the old woman say? Shortish, with a little dark moustache, wasn’t it? Andrews’s man was clean-shaven, but that’s not significant. It might be the same man,” agreed Arkwright. “I’d give something to know what was in that diary of Anthony’s. It’s the most infernal bad luck that Miss Anthony did not think of reading the part relating to his journey to Brighton when she looked at it.”

  “Whatever it was, it was worth stealing, and it could only have described his last interview with his daughter. The clue to this little problem is Bianchi and again Bianchi!”

  �
�Where is Bianchi, who is he?’” misquoted Arkwright. “I’m afraid I shall have to ask you and Manners to produce him!”

  Constantine chuckled.

  “We may yet,” he said reassuringly. “We’ve only just started on the job, you know.”

  Arkwright stretched his long legs out to their full extent and sat starting at the tips of his boots.

  “Does Howells know about his wife’s death?” he asked suddenly.

  “I wrote a line to him by to-night’s post,” answered Constantine. “It seemed only decent. I’m afraid he’ll share her father’s feelings when he hears the details. It’s a tragic business.”

  Arkwright nodded.

  “Bianchi must be a nasty piece of work, according to what she told the nurse,” he said. “I’d like to get my hands on him.”

  “Well, you haven’t done badly, considering you were only called in on Thursday night.”

  “Might be worse,” conceded Arkwright. “To-day’s Monday, and we’ve already whittled down our time schedule to the hours between six a.m. and eight p.m. on Wednesday. We’ve solved the question of Anthony’s first disappearance and raked up a pretty little scandal that, from Miss Anthony’s point of view, might very well have been left to rot in its grave. In fact, we’ve done everything but what we’re paid for, which is to catch the chap who murdered Anthony. And, incidentally, we’ve got you to thank for a good part of what’s been done.”

  He was tired, mentally and physically, and in no mood to see the bright side of things. He dragged himself wearily to his feet.

  “I’m for bed,” he said. “When you’ve done playing with those fingerprints, sir, you might let me know the result.”

  He cocked his head on one side, listening.

  “That’s your front door bell,” he exclaimed. “Do people generally call on you in the small hours?”

  Constantine rose to his feet.

  “I’d better see to it,” he said. “I told Manners to go to bed.”

  But Arkwright was already at the door.

  “I’ll go, sir,” he called over his shoulder. “You never know, this may be a policeman’s job.”