Knock, Murderer, Knock!

by Harriet Rutland

  “Don’t you find all those little things rather unpleasant?”

  Miss Lewis smiled.

  “No,” she said, “I’m used to them, and they don’t really worry me. I’d rather work for Dr. Williams than for anyone else in the world, and these petty little rules and regulations are mere incidentals. My work is the real thing to me, and it’s congenial and well paid. I’m sure there are similar disadvantages in all jobs.”

  “What, exactly, are your duties?”

  Miss Lewis tapped a reflective heel on the floor.

  “Letters first of all, then Dr. Williams comes into my office at ten to the minute every morning, and discusses such things as special menus for patients who are on a diet, and fixes times for the various treatments in the Baths. This is most important, because we have only one set of treatment rooms, and it’s very necessary to avoid any possible clashing between men and women patients.”

  Palk visualized the horror-stricken look which Miss Astill would bear if suddenly confronted by a semi-naked Colonel or Admiral, and smiled.

  “Most necessary,” he agreed, with suitable gravity.

  “Well, then, diet sheets and treatment time-tables have to be typed in duplicate, and Nurse Hawkins comes to see what arrangements have been made for her day’s work. For instance, Lady Warme has a chronically stiff shoulder, which needs frequent but not regular massage, and Admiral Urwin is always trying some new treatment, especially if it means extra attention from the nurse.” She bit her lip. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she apologized, “but in this place it’s so difficult not to repeat scandal. One hears so little of anything else, and only Dr. Williams seems to be above that kind of thing.”

  “I find it rather catching myself,” sympathized Palk. “And then?”

  “Oh, well, then I take the menus to the kitchen, and usually have to listen while the chef explains exactly why he cannot cook what Dr. Williams has ordered. It doesn’t mean a thing, really. He’s just one of those foreigners who wake up every morning wondering why he was fool enough to leave his native land, and always starts the day in a bad temper. I’ve never known him unable to carry out the doctor’s orders.”

  “A foreigner,” repeated Palk slowly.

  A smile started in Miss Lewis’s eyes and wreathed itself round her mouth.

  “Yes, he’s French, as a matter of fact. But I don’t think you can pin the murder on him, because he doesn’t sleep in the Hydro. He goes home after dinner every night.”

  The Inspector moved uneasily in his chair.

  “I didn’t realize that my thoughts were so transparent,” he remarked ruefully.

  “Don’t worry about that,” smiled Miss Lewis. “You see, I’m used to watching people to find out what they are thinking. I have a regular procession of residents coming into my office nearly every day and demanding to see Dr. Williams without giving any reasons. I just have to fish around until I find out what they want, or else Dr. Williams would never get his work done.”

  “But there are so few people in the Hydro,” returned Palk. “Surely there can’t be so many complaints.”

  Miss Lewis laughed, and Palk caught himself thinking that a woman’s laugh can be a very pleasant sound, and so frequently is not. This laugh was neither too high-pitched, like Miss Astill’s, nor too deep, like Lady Warme’s – if Lady Warme ever did laugh, which he doubted. It was not a giggle like Millie Marston’s, nor a bellow like Mrs. Napier’s; it was, in fact, everything that a laugh should be, and it expressed genuine merriment, which was reflected in the twinkle in Gwynneth Lewis’s eyes.

  “Not many? You’ve no idea what most of the residents here are like. They go around the place hoping to find something wrong, and inventing something when they fail to find it. Dr. Williams has had to give up one day entirely to hearing complaints, but even that doesn’t prevent some of the regular ones coming on all the other days in the week. They remind me of Wendy’s children in Peter Pan.”

  Palk nodded. He knew his Carroll and Barrie, and with little effort brought the reference to mind.

  “Slightly is coughing on the table... The twins began with mammee apples... Nibs is speaking with his mouth full... I complain of Curly... I complain of Nibs... I complain of the twins,” something like that, if he remembered aright.

  “One or two complaints are of long standing,” went on the secretary. “Colonel Simcox likes the rooms heated to a temperature of seventy-five degrees, or higher, while Admiral Urwin likes open windows and a temperature of fifty or fifty-five degrees. They’re always complaining of each other, as you may imagine. Then Mrs. Napier wants us to buy a new bath-chair because she doesn’t like sharing one with Miss Brendon, and so on. So you may understand that I spend a large part of my time sitting in the office and persuading them all that Dr. Williams is engaged.”

  The Inspector seemed suddenly to realize that the conversation had wandered a long way from the subject of Miss Blake’s murder. Perhaps it was because Miss Lewis’s way of talking was so expressive; she moved her hands about and raised her eyebrows when she spoke, and every feature seemed to share in her smile.

  “You probably know the people here better than most of the staff,” he said, “I suppose you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary during or after the concert?”

  “No. They all looked quite – er – normal to me. I’ve been to concerts here before, and this was exactly the same, even to the names of the songs: their repertoire is rather limited. The only thing I did notice was that everyone had his eyes focused on Miss Blake as if she were the chief attraction, or the reverse, but that was nothing new, really. She was so striking that as soon as she entered a room everyone stopped talking and gazed at her. All the men admired her and all the women envied her. I envied her myself.”

  “And after the concert?”

  “We all went into the lounge for coffee, as I told you, and I helped to pour out. Everyone talked about the concert and then everyone talked scandal about Miss Blake and Sir Humphrey Chervil.”

  “And that was nothing new either, I imagine.”

  “No,” agreed Miss Lewis. “They had both been the subject of a good deal of talk, chiefly because they were both so different from the other residents, but they hadn’t really taken much notice of each other until the last week or so, so there hadn’t really been any scandal about the two of them together. But on Sunday they went for a walk in the woods, and two young people of opposite sexes can’t do that and then sit up alone until after midnight in this place without someone making mud of their names.”

  “How did you know that they were sitting alone together till after midnight?” persisted the Inspector.

  “Weren’t they?” she asked ingenuously, and for the first time Palk, with a sickening feeling in his heart, felt suspicious of her.

  Chapter 16

  Palk interviewed the other three Marstons without adding a jot of information to that which he had already collected. Everyone, except Sir Humphrey Chervil, Dr. Williams and his secretary, had confided in him the name of the murderer, but in each case the accusation was based solely on personal spite without a vestige of evidence to support it.

  “If I believed half that I’ve been told this morning I should think I’d strayed into a regular murderers’ kitchen,” he told Sergeant Jago.

  He was poring over his notes, once again at a dead end, when a constable came in and placed a small red notebook in front of him.

  “From Room 16,” he said.

  Palk read through the pencilled contents, then paused at one page and whistled softly. He looked down his list of the rooms and their owners, murmured a name, and the constable on duty at the door went automatically, and returned with Mrs. Dawson.

  She was a heavily built woman of the old-fashioned head-mistress type, with fair hair drawn back from her forehead, and yellow horn-rimmed spectacles resting on her wellshaped nose. She wore a severely tailored blouse and skirt, thick grey stockings and low-heeled shoes, and was one of those
breezy-mannered women whom Palk instinctively disliked.

  “This is a terrible thing, Inspector,” she said. “It has shocked me deeply.”

  She certainly looked very much upset, thought Palk, and so she should if it was really her notebook he had just been reading.

  “You knew Miss Blake well?” he asked.

  “No, I can’t say that I did. She wasn’t my type exactly.”

  Palk agreed. It would have been difficult to have found two women more unlike each other.

  “You disliked her, then?”

  “Oh no. I found her most interesting.”

  Palk leaned forward earnestly.

  “Mrs. Dawson, was this murder a surprise to you?”

  “More than a surprise. A very great shock, Inspector.”

  “You had no reason to suspect that it would be committed?”

  Mrs. Dawson looked at him fearfully. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

  “I – I – I certainly didn’t expect it.”

  “Then may I ask you to be so kind as to explain this.”

  He thrust the notebook in front of her, and Mrs. Dawson’s composure broke as she saw it.

  “You found it, then,” she said. “I have been afraid that you would, but now I’m glad. Now I can tell you all about it.”

  “I must warn you –” began Palk, with a glance at the constable, who still sat at his shorthand in the corner, but she interrupted him.

  “I know all about that, but it’s been haunting me. You must see that it has.”

  Palk did not see very clearly, and said so.

  “This is a very serious matter, Mrs. Dawson,” he said. “A lady is found murdered in this Hydro, probably by someone in residence, and a notebook is found in your room, giving notes about the victim, the place of the murder, and the manner of it.” He read aloud from the notebook, “‘First murder. Miss B. Settee in drawing-room. Knitting-needle.’ Don’t you see that unless you can make some satisfactory explanation I shall have to take you into custody on suspicion of being, if not a murderer, at least accessory after the fact?”

  Mrs. Dawson’s pale-blue eyes stared at him in horror.

  “Oh, but you can’t think that I had anything to do with it! I don’t know anything about it. Don’t you see how terrible it is for those notes to have come true? If I’d really been the murderer I should never have kept them.”

  “Come, come, Mrs. Dawson,” said Palk. “Murderers have been known to make mistakes sometimes. You will have to explain more clearly than that if you expect me to believe you. What was the point of writing such a thing? It must have been put down before the murder.”

  “Of course it was, weeks before. That’s why it’s so horrible. Can’t you understand? They were notes for my new book.”

  “Oh, you write books, do you?” asked Palk, who possessed the greatest contempt for women writers.

  “Yes, thrillers. I haven’t had any published yet, but my agents will tell you it’s true. Webster and Hadley, Fleet Street; they’ve got two books of mine, but they’ve not found a publisher for them yet. This would have been my third, and I did want to make it a success.”

  Palk, whose estimation of Mrs. Dawson had gone up contrarily as he realized that her books were still unprinted, began to think that there might be some truth in what she said, although it certainly seemed to be stretching coincidence very far.

  “So they were the notes for a new thriller,” he repeated. “Let’s assume, for the moment, that I believe you. Would you mind telling me why you chose Miss Blake as the victim? I suppose you don’t deny that ‘Miss B.’ represented Miss Blake?”

  “No. It was meant to be Miss Blake. I told you that I found her interesting. Besides, she was by far the prettiest woman in the place, and seemed the obvious choice for the victim. Can’t you see what a perfect setting this Hydro is for a murder, Inspector, with everyone wanting to murder someone else at times? I’ve seen Mr. Marston look as if he could murder Lady Warme when she played a wrong stroke at croquet, and Colonel Simcox look as if he could murder Admiral Urwin when he joined his tête-à-tête with Miss Blake, and Mrs. Napier look as if she could murder the nurse when she saw her talking to the Admiral.”

  Palk had a suspicion that she was trying to lead him away from his questions.

  “I must remind you,” he said, “that in view of those notes you are under very strong suspicion. I am going to give you every chance to answer the questions I put to you, but I must caution you that –”

  “That everything I say will be taken down and used in evidence against me,” supplied Mrs. Dawson. “I know, I’ve written it down often enough myself. I’m not a fool, and, of course, I see that I’m under suspicion. It’s bound to look queer for me to plan a murder that comes true, even to the knitting-needle, but I don’t know anything about the real murder.”

  “Why did you choose a knitting-needle as a weapon?”

  “Because it was the only original one I could think of. Daggers and bullets have been overdone, and the women here always carry knitting about in their needlework bags; anyone could get hold of one. I hadn’t definitely decided on it, you know. You’ll see a question mark after the words ‘knitting-needle’, if you look. There were so many details to think out in connection with it. For one thing, the murderer would have to have a handle for the needle before it could be made into a serviceable weapon.”

  “So you’d thought about that, had you?” asked Palk.

  “Of course I’d thought about it. A writer of thrillers has to think about these things, Inspector.” Mrs. Dawson was fast recovering her natural manner.

  “Perhaps you also understand how the knitting-needle caused Miss Blake’s death?”

  “It pierced the medulla through the gap between the two halves of the skull when she bent her head forward, didn’t it? It’s no use, Inspector, I’ve told you that I intended to write it up in a story; naturally, I read up all the necessary details.”

  “I suppose you bought a book for that purpose, then. Can you let me see it?”

  “There was no need to buy a book, Inspector. The doctor’s medical books are scattered all over the Hydro, and all who run may read.”

  “Did you mention this method of murder to anyone in the Hydro?”

  “Probably. I’m not what you’d call a silent worker. I like to discuss ideas with other people.”

  There was no doubt about her telling the truth there, thought Palk.

  “So that it is quite possible that you discussed the theory in some detail to several people here?”

  “Yes, I’m almost sure to have done, but I don’t actually remember doing it.”

  “I see. And where had you thought of hiding the handle after the murderer had done his job?” Palk asked sarcastically.

  Mrs. Dawson took his question quite seriously.

  “I’m afraid I hadn’t worked it out far enough for that,” she said. “But I should have made it fairly obvious, I think, like the dagger in The Cat and the Canary. If you make your clues too involved you defeat your own ends, because people soon get tired of following them. You don’t write, Inspector, so you probably won’t understand what I mean.”

  Palk thought of the long, elaborate records he would be expected to write for headquarters, and smiled to himself.

  “Will you tell me what your object was in writing ‘First murder’ in your notes?” he asked.

  “Well, there were to have been several murders in the book. Two or three, at least. The reading public nowadays is never satisfied with only one murder. They like plenty of thrills for their money.”

  She had now quite recovered from her nervousness and answered quite frankly, with a kind of professional interest.

  “There’s no accounting for tastes,” replied Palk. “One is too much for me, but, then, I don’t read thrillers. Do you write for a hobby, Mrs. Dawson?”

  Mrs. Dawson was not offended.

  “Oh no, I don’t like writing sufficiently well for tha
t; it’s very hard work. But I’m a widow, and have a small son.”

  Well, she’s not my type, thought Palk, but some man must have thought her attractive.

  “I’ve enough income from my husband’s shares to keep us both comfortably now, because Bobby is only seven, but I’ve been fairly hard hit by the conversion loans, and when Bobby is older I shall need more than I have for his education. There seems to be such a demand for thrillers, and the only thing I have any flair for is writing, so I’ve been trying it for the last three years without any luck. I didn’t wish any harm to Miss Blake, but if she had to be murdered sometime in her life, I can’t help feeling glad that it was when I was here. It will be such marvellous publicity.”

  Inspector Palk snorted. That’s just typical of a woman, he thought, in the superiority of his bachelorhood. Vultures, all of ’em!

  “This is a police inquiry,” he said scornfully, “not a publicity agent’s.”

  He asked a few more questions, then dismissed her, more than a little convinced of her genuineness, despite his own personal feelings. As she reached the door he halted her.

  “By the way,” he said, “whom had you chosen as the murderer?”

  Mrs. Dawson smiled.

  “Miss Astill,” she said sweetly, “because she seemed the most unlikely of the lot!”

  Chapter 17

  Miss Astill came into the library wearing a fussy dress which gave the impression of her entering the room amid streamers. The first thing that the Inspector noticed was that she was carrying a deep tapestry needlework bag in her hand, and in sudden suspicion, which he hoped was not engendered by Mrs. Dawson’s last words, he said:

  “I suppose that bag has been searched, Miss Astill.”

  Miss Astill looked startled.

  “Yes, yes, it has certainly. By a police officer. He said he was looking for knitting-needles, but I don’t knit. I never could, even as a child, though I can’t think why. I told him to try Colonel Simcox; he’s very clever at knitting.”