Knock, Murderer, Knock!

by Harriet Rutland

  Winnie lay obediently still, her leg pleasantly stimulated by the massage, and her body glowing from the warmth of the douche.

  It was true, she was thinking, that her engagement was an important one: how important, the nurse could never guess, but it was not a bit of good making a fuss about it. Tomorrow would do as well. The Hydro was such a place for gossip that she couldn’t be too careful.

  She bent her head forward on the pillow and tucked up her knees, snuggling like a kitten in the warmth of the couch.

  She smiled to herself as she visualized Matthews’ firm chin, and the brown eyes which seemed the same colour as his chauffeur’s uniform. How strange that she would never have thought of Matthews as a lover if those old cats in the Hydro hadn’t started to make up all that dreadful scandal about them, just because she went out with him alone when she was learning to drive the car. She would never have thought of him as a man otherwise, but only as a useful and necessary robot. She would never have learned to thrill to the touch of his hands, would never have made such shameless eyes at him, nor allowed – well, encouraged him, then – to kiss her. She was just twenty, and had never been kissed by any man before. She and Millie had never had the chances that other girls had in these modern days. Mother was so old-fashioned that she behaved like a duenna of pre-Communist Spain, and never allowed them to go to dances or parties unchaperoned. Mother would have sixty fits if she knew that she had fallen in love with Matthews, but then, Mother was no judge of men. Look at Father! Look at the way she had thrust herself and Millie at Sir Humphrey Chervil, and he had turned out to be a murderer.

  Her eyes grew dreamy.

  She and Bert would have to live in a town planned house and eat high tea at six o’clock. Bert would cut the pocket-handkerchief lawn on Sunday mornings in his shirt-sleeves and no collar. She wouldn’t mind. She hated late dinner, anyway, and she had often seen Bert in his shirt-sleeves and dungarees, without a collar, when he had been cleaning the car. She thought that he looked nice like that, lovable and reliable somehow. Oh, she would be happy with Bert, and there was no need to have an aspidistra in the window after all –

  A slight sound attracted her attention and she opened a sleepy eye.

  “Hello!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  Chapter 23

  Nurse Hawkins entered through the door of the ladies’ baths and put a large box of thermogene on the table. She glanced through the open door of the room in which Winnie Marston had been resting and, noticing that she was still there, called out brightly, “You can get up now, Miss Marston!” then went into the electric-treatment room, where Mrs. Dawson was still sitting facing the thermostat machine, book on knees.

  She looked up and smiled as the nurse touched her on the shoulder, but did not attempt to speak, for the noise of the machine was so great that only a high shout could possibly have penetrated through it. Nurse Hawkins glanced briefly at her wrist-watch, turned an indicator on the machine slowly, then switched off the current and removed the plug from the wall.

  “There,” she said, “I hope you were all right while I was away. Did it prickle much?”

  “I didn’t notice it,” replied Mrs. Dawson, “and if I had, I could have turned it down a little. I’ve watched you doing it enough times. But I was far too much interested in my book.”

  “I think I’ll give you the massage in this room, Mrs. Dawson. It’s warmer than in the big one.”

  The nurse went out into the large main room for a light table and pillow. She noticed that the curtain of Winnie Marston’s cubicle was swaying slightly as she passed, and guessed that she was dressing.

  “Same time on Thursday, Miss Marston,” she called out, and without waiting for a reply, went back to Mrs. Dawson.

  For the next half-hour Nurse Hawkins was silent, not so much because she was engrossed in her thoughts as because Mrs. Dawson liked to hear the sound of her own voice, and started a monologue which covered a variety of subjects and theories mostly concerned with new and fantastic methods of murdering people, for the writing of thrillers was a kind of fever with her and she looked upon other people’s lives and emotions as so much “copy.”

  “They say it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” she said, “and there’s no doubt that Miss Blake’s murder will be a great help to me. It’s good publicity; couldn’t be better. The last letter from my agents was distinctly encouraging, and I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that they’ve been able to place one of my books at last. After all, if one has to be mixed up in a case of this kind, one might as well get some good out of it. The trouble is that if I really based a book on Miss Blake’s murder and put all the Hydro people in it, nobody would believe that such a collection of oddities could ever exist. And in any case, one murder isn’t enough for the reading public nowadays; it would be better to have at least two... Oh, have you finished already? Surprising how the time goes when one is busy talking, isn’t it? I talk far too much, of course. It’s one of my failings, I know. I hope to goodness that this wrist of mine will soon be well. It’s a great handicap to a novelist, but I must be thankful for small mercies, I suppose. It’s lucky that I can write with my left hand.”

  By the time that she had finished this last sentence, she had once more buttoned herself into her blouse, and with a little nod of farewell, she walked briskly away.

  Nurse Hawkins began cleaning up the electric-room, for it was part of her job to leave all the treatment-rooms in perfect order before going to her lunch. Mrs. Dawson had slopped some water on the floor, and the nurse wiped it up with a clean towel.

  She resented such menial tasks, and thought it strange that in a hotel as over-staffed as this, she should not be provided with an assistant to keep the rooms and apparatus clean. To be sure, one of the maids washed the floors and polished the brasswork of the shower douche, which looked like part of a ship’s engine-room with its round pipes and clock-faced indicators, but she had to clean up after her patients, who always seemed to take a fiendish delight in leaving everything as untidy as possible. And was she a trained nurse or was she not? she asked herself resentfully. Why should she have to put things in order for that lazy lout Ted Cox, the men’s bath-attendant? A nice soft job he had. Why, he wasn’t even a proper masseur! If any patient, man or woman, needed massage in this place she had to do it. If anyone developed a sudden temperature or was taken ill in the middle of the night, she was sent for. If some old half-wit like Mrs. Napier decided not to walk, she had to go and help her. And as if that was not enough, she was expected to mop up floors and clean saucepans.

  If she’d complained to Dr. Williams once, she had complained fifty times, but what was the use? He only looked at you with his most charming smile and said, “If you’re overworked, Nurse, what about me?” and of course you couldn’t do anything then except smile back at him. He was a hard taskmaster, but he never spared himself. No wonder Miss Lewis was crazy about him. She’d been a bit potty on him herself when she’d come first. But you might as well fall in love with a crepe bandage for all the notice he ever took of women. He was entirely wrapped up in his work and his little daughter. Besides, the doctor wasn’t her sort. She liked a man to have a bit more go in him – to slap you on your backside and tell you you were a fine buxom wench. Thank God, she was no lady!

  Well, if things turned out as she expected, perhaps she wouldn’t have to mop floors in this place much longer.

  She bunched pillow, towels, and lint under her left arm, picked up the kettle, and put them in the proper places in the middle room. Then she hesitated.

  “Shall I light a fag?” she asked herself. “I could do with one after listening to that human gramophone record for half an hour. Ten past one. Just time to finish one before luncheon, and take a turn outside to blow the smoke out of my hair. Yes. Oh, blast it! I’ve forgotten the rest-room! Water carafe to fill up, I expect; glass to wash; hot-water bottle to empty. There won’t be time, unless Miss Winnie thought of making the bed after she
got up. She’s a good sort and might have thought of it. I’d better go and find out the worst...”

  As she walked through the open door into the rest-room she saw Winnie’s fair head still lying on the pillow, and halted in surprise.

  “Why, Miss Marston!” she exclaimed. “I thought you had gone some time ago!”

  As Winnie did not move, she walked briskly towards the bed and put her hand on her shoulder.

  “You’ve been fast asleep,” she said, shaking her gently.

  She bent forward suddenly as she perceived the unnatural stillness of Winnie’s face, and pulled down the bedclothes with professional concern to feel her heart. But as she drew aside the towel in which Winnie was wrapped, she started hack, for the light from the window glinted on something like a steel arrow which projected from the back of the bowed head.

  Chapter 24

  When Inspector Palk entered the ladies’ treatment-rooms, the first person he saw was Nurse Hawkins standing beside the old-fashioned wall telephone, with the earpiece in her hand. He went up to her.

  “What are you doing with that?” he demanded.

  Dr. Williams answered for her.

  “Merely a precautionary measure,” he said. “Nurse Hawkins volunteered to remain here alone while I telephoned for you. But as it seems certain that there is a homicidal maniac at large somewhere in the Hydro, I didn’t like to leave her alone without the means of calling for help if she were attacked. This ’phone is plugged in to my consulting-room, which we have just left.”

  Palk made a sign to Sergeant Jago, and kept the others waiting until he judged that he had had time to reach the consulting-room, then he took out the plug, which caused the telephone to whistle at the other end, and spoke down the mouthpiece.

  “Sergeant Jago speaking,” was the reply.

  “Right. Lock the door behind you and bring the key.”

  He hung up, and spoke apologetically to the doctor.

  “Sorry, sir, but it’s my habit to clear up as I go along. It’s not Sir Humphrey this time, you know, because I’ve got him safe in a police cell. Now will you show me, Nurse, how you found Miss Marston?”

  Nurse Hawkins led the way through the door to the left of the telephone, and motioned towards the bed. Her face was pale but expressionless.

  Palk’s inspection did not take long.

  “She was lying in this position when you found her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were the bedclothes tossed about as if there had been any struggle?”

  “No, they were neatly folded round her and tucked in at the sides just as I had left them. The towel was drawn tightly round the body. I pulled it away so that I could feel her heart.”

  Palk looked carefully round and under the bed, then worked his way round the room. He indicated a metal tray on the table beside the bed, containing a water-flask and a used glass.

  “Did Miss Marston drink some water?” he asked.

  “I didn’t see her do so, but it’s most likely that she did. Nearly all the patients do while they’re resting. I always refill the carafe and put out a clean glass before each patient comes in.”

  “Better take charge of them, Sergeant,” said Palk. “You might get something from them, though I doubt it.”

  He walked to the nearest cupboard and, opening it, saw piles of clean linen and towels. Then he walked over to the glass-fronted cupboard facing the couch, in which could be seen rows of bottles, most of them marked “Poison,” rolls of lint, and boxes of bandages. He tried the doors and found them locked.

  “Where is the key to this cupboard kept?” he asked.

  Nurse Hawkins produced it from her pocket, and Palk unlocked the cupboard and peered inside.

  “I have a duplicate key,” said the doctor, taking it off a split ring. The Inspector took it without comment, locked the doors with it, and handed both keys to the sergeant. He moved across to the other couches, inspected their coverings, moved sheets and pillows, and left them untidy. He then proceeded to a closed door at the end of the room and, on opening it, found himself in a box-like lavatory with tiled walls and floor. He sniffed the air, and beckoned Sergeant Jago inside.

  “Smell anything?” he asked.

  The sergeant sniffed tentatively.

  “Moth balls,” he said. Then, “That, I expect,” indicating a small square cage fixed to the wall, containing a decreasing piece of bright pink, frosted antiseptic.

  “Yes, perhaps,” agreed Palk, returning to the massage room and indicating to the police doctor and photographer that they could proceed with their routine tasks. He turned into the electric-room, which was equipped with a couch, two chairs, and several elaborate-looking machines, whose intricacies would have delighted the heart of a Heath Robinson. The doctor explained their purposes as if Palk had been any ordinary visitor.

  “And where does that door lead to?” the Inspector asked at length, pointing to a door immediately opposite the one through which they had entered.

  “Into the men’s treatment-rooms,” the doctor replied. “They are almost exact replicas of the two rooms we have already seen in the ladies’ section, but the electric-room is common to both. Electrical apparatus is exceedingly expensive, and we are not sufficiently busy to feel justified in duplicating this room. The men have their electric treatment in the afternoons so that the times do not overlap, so there won’t be anyone in there now.”

  He threw the door open, and there, in full view, stood a dark curly-haired man of about thirty, his coat off and shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows.

  “Who is this, then?” asked Palk.

  “Ted Cox, the men’s bath-attendant and masseur,” replied the doctor, unperturbed. “He naturally has access to the rooms at any time of the day.”

  Palk stepped up to the table at which Cox was standing.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Cox answered as if he were speaking to any casual visitor.

  “Sterilizing instruments, sir.”

  “This is Inspector Palk, Cox,” said Dr. Williams. “He wants to ask you a few questions.”

  Cox looked startled but said nothing.

  “Where were you when Miss Marston was murdered?” asked Palk.

  “Miss Blake, you mean, don’t you, sir?”

  “No. Miss Marston was murdered this morning in the massage-room within a few yards of where you are standing.”

  A glass dish crashed to the floor.

  “My God!” exclaimed Cox, his hands trembling.

  The Inspector looked at him curiously.

  “I haven’t seen you before,” he remarked. “Where were you when I interviewed the rest of the staff about Miss Blake’s murder?”

  Cox moved his eyes restlessly from left to right. He looked pale.

  “I – I wasn’t in the Hydro, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t live in, sir. I have my own house down in the village. I leave here at six o’clock and come every morning at eight. I wasn’t allowed in the building on the morning after the murder, sir.”

  “Where were you between six o’clock in the evening and six o’clock on the morning of the murder?”

  “I – I don’t remember, sir. I don’t think I was anywhere except home.”

  Palk turned to the doctor.

  “Surely it’s rather strange not to have this man on the premises,” he said. “Suppose one of the men patients were taken ill at night?”

  “It’s quite a usual arrangement,” replied the doctor. “If anyone were taken ill, Nurse Hawkins would attend to him. Cox is only an attendant, not a trained nurse or masseur.”

  “So he couldn’t give an injection to any patient?”

  “Oh no! Nurse Hawkins or I would do that,” replied the doctor in some bewilderment.

  “Then why are you sterilizing that hypodermic?” snapped Palk to the unhappy Cox.

  The man moved restlessly on his feet.

  “I just thought I’d do it, sir.”

&
nbsp; “Is any injection to be given this morning?”

  “Not that I know of, sir. I saw it there and I thought it looked dirty and thought I’d clean it.”

  Palk made a swift movement with his hand.

  “And I suppose you thought you’d clean this as well,” he said, holding up a plain steel knitting-needle which he had snatched out of the metal container holding numerous other instruments.

  Cox looked terror-stricken.

  “I never saw it before, sir. You can’t think that I had anything to do with killing Miss Marston!”

  “How do you know that Miss Marston was killed with a knitting-needle?” came the quick question, and Cox relapsed into a scared silence.

  Palk looked round the room and saw that it was, as the doctor had said, almost a mirror-image of the ladies’ room. “How long have you been in this room?” he asked Cox. “About an hour, sir, I think. Perhaps more.”

  “What have you been doing all that time? Not sterilizing instruments, I imagine.”

  “No, sir. I’ve been dusting and tidying the rooms. They’re in my charge, sir. I do them every morning.”

  Palk strolled into the smaller massage-room and sniffed.

  “Someone’s been smoking in here,” he remarked. “You?”

  Cox looked furtively at the doctor.

  “No, sir. No one is allowed to smoke in the treatment-rooms.”

  “Has anyone else been in here this morning?”

  “No, sir... that is, no.”

  “So I suppose that the smoke drifted in through a closed skylight. Come, you’d better tell me the truth. I shall find out eventually.”

  Cox became more and more ill at ease.

  “Well, sir, my pal Bert Matthews did drop in for a few words, sir. But only for a minute or two, sir. He didn’t even shut the door behind him, but just stood in the doorway.”