by Molly Thynne
Arkwright took his off and examined it critically.
“Smaller than the civilian head,” he retorted with a grin, as he departed.
Back in his office at the Yard he examined his find more carefully. The gauntlets bore no mark except their size number, stamped inside the cuff. They were of inexpensive make and had seen a good deal of service before they had been ruined so irretrievably. Arkwright pushed them aside and turned his attention to the notes he had taken from the garage proprietor. These were both new and, which was more interesting, bore consecutive numbers. Across the corner of one of them was a green stain. While he was considering them the telephone bell rang. Arkwright took off the receiver to find Constantine at the other end.
“I’ve had a stroke of luck,” he said, “and, as a result, I’ve got a suggestion to make to you. Did Miller tell you anything about that woman he was by way of meeting at Victoria on Monday night?”
“Nothing, beyond the fact that she had not arrived. As I told you, he got the wind up before his visit to the mortuary. Thought the murdered woman might out to be his friend, but he failed to identify her.”
“He did definitely fail to identify her?”
“Said he’d never seen her before. It was evidently a great relief to him.”
“Does Miller strike you as being the sort of person to feel acute concern as to the fate of a vague friend of his wife’s? He didn’t give the impression that she was an intimate friend of his own, did he?”
“No, I rather gathered that he didn’t know her well and was annoyed at her coming. What is the bright idea, sir?” Constantine countered with another question.
“Have you had tea? Or does Scotland Yard not run to such effeminacies?”
“As one old lady to another, I have not,” retorted Arkwright, “but, as a means of changing the subject. .. .”
“Then I’ll be with you very shortly and join you in a cup,” went on Constantine imperturbably. “Then, if there’s nothing in my idea we shall neither of us have wasted our time.”
“Delighted,” assented the mystified Arkwright, his finger already on the bell. He sent the messenger who answered it out to buy cakes, cleared a space on his table for the tray and waited. If Constantine said “shortly,” he meant it and he knew him well enough to be certain that any idea of his would be worthy of consideration.
The old chess player’s eyebrows went up at the sight of the tray.
“So this is where our money goes, is it?” he remarked plaintively. “Well, I don’t grudge it to you. Between mouthfuls I’ll try to prove to you that I’m not so senile as I may have sounded on the telephone. I had a chat with Miller today.”
Arkwright paused in the act of pouring out tea.
“Did he go to see you?” he asked in surprise.
“Hardly. Fate threw us together. I decided to indulge my old bones in a Turkish Bath this morning. Simmering on the next slab to myself was Miller. We could have hardly devised a more informal meeting and I may mention that he looks singularly unprepossessing in a Turkish Bath.”
“So I should imagine,” answered Arkwright appreciatively. “I gather you exercised your well known powers of conversation on him?”
Constantine smiled reminiscently.
“I did my best. He was more than ready to talk about the murder, in fact I had difficulty in keeping him off the subject. He wasn’t nearly so anxious to discuss his wife’s old friend.”
He paused.
“Has it struck you that he took her non-arrival rather casually?” he demanded.
“He didn’t seem worried, certainly,” admitted Arkwright, “but considering what had happened that day he would have had every excuse if he had forgotten all about her.”
“That wouldn’t have surprised me in the least. What does strike me as curious is that, having remembered her, he wasn’t at more pains to discover why she never turned up.”
“There had been all this business connected with his wife’s death.”
“Oh, he’s every excuse, I admit. In spite of which his attitude towards her does not ring true. Anyway, it roused my curiosity, and when I found that he showed distinct reluctance to discuss the matter I’m afraid I used all the guile I had at my command to extract information. He couldn’t very well refuse to tell me who she was and he admitted that he had made no effort to find out whether she had arrived in London. There was one thing that, with all my efforts, I could not persuade him to do. That was to describe her.”
Arkwright frowned.
“Do you mean to say that he refused to tell you what she looked like?” he demanded.
“I mean that he evaded giving any description of her so persistently and so cleverly that a suspicion slowly began to form in my mind.”
Arkwright stared at him.
“You’re not suggesting that he did recognize the woman in the mortuary?” he said.
“No. I’m suggesting that he didn’t, because he couldn’t. Did he ever tell you in so many words that he had ever met this friend of his wife’s?”
Arkwright hesitated.
“He certainly implied it,” he said at last. “What object could he have in concealing the fact that he didn’t know her?”
“None, unless he wanted to delay the identification as long as possible. Supposing, when he told you his wife’s friend had never turned up, he had also told you that he did not know what she looked like, what would you have done?”
“I should have worked on the assumption that she might have come on an earlier train and endeavoured to find out whether she was missing, I suppose, merely on the chance that she might prove to be the murdered woman.”
“Helped by the fact that Miller, though he had never seen her, could supply you with all particulars as to her identity. By implying that he knew her and did not recognise her, he managed to evade this. Why?”
“But he hasn’t admitted to you that he has never seen her, sir,” objected Arkwright.
“In all but actual words, he has admitted it,” asserted Constantine impatiently. “I can’t prove it, but I tell you I know he was unable to describe her and that he didn’t dare take the risk of giving a false description.”
“I can’t see why he should have hesitated there. If the woman lives in Paris, as he said, her friends would not be here to refute him.”
“Her friends are not in Paris. She brought them with her when she came to England. I literally forced that out of him. Miller, if he had never seen this friend of his wife’s and had omitted to tell you so, found himself in a cleft stick this morning. When I tried to get her description out of him he had already told me her name and that she was a member of a troupe of Russian singers and dancers that is appearing at the Parthenon Playhouse next week. That being the case, he did not dare describe her. It would not take half an hour to get in touch with the manager of the troupe and find out if the description were correct.”
“And less than an hour, probably, to get one of them down to the mortuary. That’s what you’re driving at, isn’t it, sir?”
“It’s what I hoped you might do,” agreed Constantine placidly. “I admit that I’ve given you very little to go on, but, if this friend of Miller’s turns out not to be missing, or even if she has not arrived, but is proved to have no connection with the murdered woman, you will be no worse off than you were before. I think it’s an idea worthy of your consideration. I suppose Miller’s alibis are air-tight?”
Arkwright grinned.
“I think you would find it difficult to pick a hole in them. He was at his office from ten till twelve thirty. We have his staff’s word for that. Mrs. Miller was murdered between eleven forty-eight and twelve five, as you know.”
“What about his movements in the evening?”
“Scheduled to the minute! The footman, who made up the fire in the library at seven twenty-five states that he was there then; the butler spoke to him in the library at seven forty-five and saw him cross the hall from the secretary’s room at a few minutes
to eight. We know that the murder in Eccleston Square took place somewhere between seven thirty and eight. The secretary, who was working in his room all the evening, states that he took letters into the library for Miller’s signature several times during the evening. No, however fishy his behaviour may have been since, he was not concerned in the murder.”
Constantine deliberated for a moment.
“It looks as if he were lying low about something that happened in the past,” he said, at last. “Something fairly significant, I should think. I have a strong suspicion that he knows, or at least suspects, who killed his wife.”
“The man’s frightened,” insisted Arkwright. “I can tell you that. Shouldn’t wonder if he thinks he’ll be the next to go.”
“If that’s the case his obvious course should be to ask for police protection,” was Constantine’s dry comment. “I’d give a great deal to know why he doesn’t. Some queer things happened in Switzerland during the war. Have you worked on that line at all?”
“I’ve tried the Special Branch. There’s nothing doing there. They’ve no record of anyone of that name, but then, of course, he may have called himself anything. He was certainly in funds when he got back to Cape Town in nineteen twenty-six. It was understood that he had been dealing in jewels in Switzerland for some time.”
“With Russian refugees pouring in from all sides there was a good field for business there. He may have made his money honestly. All the same I think our friend Miller is worth watching.”
Constantine leaned forward and picked up The Times from Arkwright’s desk.
“The Russian show opens on Monday next at the Parthenon Playhouse,” he said. “They are running a kind of variety performance between the two big films. It would be interesting to know whether any member of the cast is missing.”
Arkwright gathered himself to his feet.
“The resources of the Yard are at your disposal, sir,” he announced, with a grin. “But, honestly, I think you are drawing a bow at a venture.”
“Well, if we do hit anything the credit will go to you,” retorted Constantine, “and the Yard has plenty of arrows at its disposal.”
Arkwright applied himself to the telephone and had no difficulty in getting the address of the manager of the Russian Company from the box office at the Parthenon. After a short conversation he hung up the receiver with a sigh.
“He’s at a small hotel off the Strand,” he said. “I’d better see the man myself. Interviewing temperamental foreigners on the phone is a poor business at best. What will you do, sir? I shall come straight back here, I expect.”
Constantine smiled shrewdly.
“If only for the pleasure of saying ‘I told you so,’ to a fussy old gentleman,” he replied. “On the whole, I should prefer to be present at the scene of my humiliation. Unless you feel that I shall mar the official atmosphere?”
Arkwright executed a neat continental bow as he picked up the receiver once more and gave the number of the manager’s hotel.
“I shall welcome your assistance, my dear colleague,” he asserted floridly.
The manager was at home and, ten minutes later, Constantine having insisted on a taxi on the score of his advancing years, they entered the hotel.
Monsieur Karamiev, a short, immensely fat individual, whose clean-shaven, very sallow face seemed permanently afflicted with that look of vague discomfort and apprehension so often to be observed on the Channel, hurried down from his room at the sight of Arkwright’s official card and professed himself entirely at his service. He protested volubly and in excellent English that his papers and those of his artistes were all in order.
Arkwright, who, on the way from the Yard, had suggested that Constantine should take charge of this, his own, investigation, reassured Monsieur Karamiev on this point and introduced his companion.
“This gentleman has one or two questions to ask concerning a member of your troupe,” he said, and then, with a mischievous side glance at Constantine, retired into the background.
Constantine opened negotiations with a bow as elaborate, if slightly less florid, than the Russian’s.
“I must apologise for troubling you, Monsieur,” he said, “but I have been given to understand that Madame Abramoff is a member of your company.”
Monsieur Karamiev’s look of nausea became more pronounced.
“Ah, Monsieur,” he exclaimed tragically. “I knew it! You have come to tell me that Madame Abramoff is unable to play on Monday! You are a doctor, yes?”
Constantine smiled.
“Not a doctor of medicine, Monsieur,” he assured him. “I have no message from Madame Abramoff. On the contrary, I was depending on you for information concerning her. Could you oblige me with her address?”
The manager threw out his fat little arms in a gesture expressive of tragic despair.
“But I have it not! Imagine, Monsieur, we arrive on Monday, last at the station here in London. My artistes go to the lodgings I have engaged for them, all of them except Vera Abramoff. She leaves the station with a friend with whom she is to stay during our engagement here. Before she goes she tells me that she will telephone to me concerning the times of our rehearsals and other important arrangements we have to make between us. From that time until now I hear nothing of her.”
The amusement faded from Arkwright’s eyes and he took a step forward, only to subside at a warning gesture from Constantine.
“You arrived, I think, at seven fifteen at Victoria, Monsieur,” suggested the old man.
Karamiev bowed.
“That is so, Monsieur.”
“And this friend of Madame’s? You saw him?”
“Assuredly, Monsieur. A very correct gentleman, the husband, I understand, of the friend with whom Madame was to stay.”
“He was dark and clean-shaven, this gentleman?”
“But, no, Monsieur. He wore a little grey beard, cut as one sees them in France and also in my country. I said to myself, that Madame does not stay, as I thought, with her compatriots.”
“Madame Abramoff is English, then?”
The apprehension on the Russian’s face deepened.
“I assure you that Madame’s papers are correct, Monsieur,” he vociferated. “All through France and Germany they have never been questioned. Madame is a Russian subject by marriage, but she is of English parentage. Until her husband’s death during the Revolution she was a rich woman, well known in society in Riga. There can be nothing against her.”
Constantine’s smile was a miracle of polite deprecation.
“Believe me, Monsieur,” he said, “we are not questioning Madame’s credentials. My interest in her is purely friendly. But we have lost sight of her for many years and anything you can tell us of her life in Russia would be of the greatest assistance to us. Shall we sit down while you are kind enough to satisfy our curiosity?”
Herding the little man towards a chair he took out his cigarette case and offered it to him,
“You need be under no apprehension,” he assured him. “The police here haven’t the smallest intention of interfering with your performance. This is a purely private matter, in which my friend here, Chief Inspector Arkwright, has kindly consented to help me. These friends, now, of Madame Abramoff’s, can you tell me anything about them? Are they friends of long standing?”
Monsieur Karamiev shrugged his fat shoulders.
“I can only tell you what she has said to the other members of my company, Monsieur,” he answered. “Myself I know nothing. The lady, I understand, was an old stage acquaintance of Madame’s in the days before her marriage. Madame met Abramoff in England, married him and went to Russia, where she has lived ever since. Her husband was killed in the early days of the Revolution and Madame was left penniless. Before I met Madame she had been acting as dresser to a dancer, a woman of the new regime who treated her worse than a dog. She was brought to me by a member of my Company and, finding that I could use her in my performance, I engaged her and she has b
een travelling with us ever since. She can only play certain parts, you understand. Hardship has altered her voice and her looks, but for what you call the character parts she is useful and I am glad to employ her.”
“Can you think of anyone, Monsieur, who might wish her ill? Is there any enemy she might have made during those years in Russia?”
Monsieur Karamiev looked sceptical.
“It is difficult to believe, Monsieur,” he answered. “Vera Abramoff is so gentle and kindly. But during those years, you understand, many strange things happened. She may have made enemies, yes, in spite of herself. That she was ill-treated, I know, but I have never heard that she harmed anyone.”
“She has never spoken of anyone whom she might have reason to fear?”
For a second tragedy looked out of the eyes of the Russian.
“There was a period, Monsieur,” he said, “when we feared everybody in Russia. Even those nearest to us. But Vera Abramoff, once she had crossed the frontier, showed no special fear. I think she is happy with us.”
“She showed no reluctance to come to England.”
“None, Monsieur. She seemed to be looking forward to renewing her old friendships. She certainly spoke with pleasure of this visit she was about to pay.”
Constantine rose.
“Then I think I need trouble you no further, Monsieur,” he said. “You have heard nothing from her, you say, since she left you at the station?”
“Nothing. It is that which was making me anxious. Tomorrow we rehearse and she left me no address with which to reach her. I feared she was ill.”
Constantine turned to the window and stood there, looking out into the narrow street, while Arkwright explained matters to Monsieur Karamiev. He accompanied the two men to the mortuary and waited outside for them, but he had little doubt now as to what the result of their visit would be.
One glance at the Russian’s face when he emerged was enough. The identity of the victim of the Eccleston Square murder was established at last.
